


Murder on the Orion Express

by Mastodontosaurus



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst, Crime, Gen, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 75,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mastodontosaurus/pseuds/Mastodontosaurus
Summary: In the dead of the void, the famous Orion Express is stopped in its trajectory. By morning, the wealthy Shaun Richard Evered lies dead in his berth, stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside. Without doubt, one of his fellow passengers is the murderer...
Kudos: 2





	1. An Importan Passenger on the Taurus Express

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long note at the beginning. It won't be like this every chapter, but to make up for it, I'm posting the prologue and first chapter together.
> 
> The original story is posted on Fanfiction.com under the username BetaBass.
> 
> I have been a longtime fan of Agatha Christie and Star Trek. The following is an adaptation of one of my all time favorite plots, set in the Star Trek universe. This is a slightly Alternate Universe Star Trek setting.
> 
> This should be fairly evident, but just so my bases are covered: I own neither Star Trek nor the source material for the plot. I made up a couple of my own species and the term phal, which is basically plot-driven space snow, but if anything seems familiar, it is probably because it is – they are not mine.
> 
> You may wonder at the descriptions of humans as suddenly more physically capable on the scale of sapient life. That is influence from reddit's HFY (Humanity, F*ck Yeah) page, where instead of humans being the obtuse weaklings of the galaxy, they are closer to space orcs. I couldn't help myself, although I did try to tone it down a bit. Humans are still flimsier than vulcans and klingons, but scarier for other species.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome.
> 
> Final bit here:
> 
> I decided for the sake of my sanity to ignore that differently sized planets in different systems and cultures will have their own systems for keeping time. I've kept the seven-day-week system, and I call them Monday, Tuesday, etc., in case it comes up. I am also ignoring time zones, because I don't even want to think about keeping a running spreadsheet of different chronologies for different planets and how that translates for the characters traveling through space. Time does come up, so when people say it's 9 at night, it means exactly what you think it does.
> 
> Hopefully everyone will simply enjoy the ride. Almost literally.

Prologue:

He periodically swore he was getting too old for his line of work. But, his planet had needed him. Then, it was his system. Now, it was several systems this end of the galactic quadrant.

Chronologically, he wasn't actually that old, but by almost any other metric, he was ancient. The old man rubbed at the corners of his eyes and drained his cup before booting his pad. Accessing this particular file had become his new normal.

Those damned kids better not have cocked things up. He didn't care if one of them was several years his senior, nor did he care that they'd all racked up more time in a wide variety of space and field operations than him at this point. If they succeeded, then this Old Man could finally think about actually retiring. If not, the delicate diplomatic ties he'd helped support might wither. He generally categorized people he worked with into two categories. Failures or martyrs. Those who succeeded were just failures or martyrs in the making. Besides, if those kids failed, who was he kidding? He'd realized some years back that he would likely die from someone seeking revenge. And to think, the very people who would conceivably end this Old Man's life were the very ones on conquest for justice from a different old man.

The pad booted and the file loaded.

Images of the crime scene felt familiar at this point. Old Man had studied these images to the point that he knew them better than the faces of his wife, children and two favorite mistresses. He lazily scrolled through the first autopsy report, and settled in to review the second one. Then the many police and medical reports. The filings, the pleadings. The news articles. The gossipy tabloids.

He nodded to his receptionist who entered to deliver the latest news. He stepped forward, placed the chips on Old Man's desk and took the liberty of replacing his thermos with a fresh one. Old Man appreciated his receptionist's ability to predict his own wants and needs before he'd even realized them. Instead of immediately leaving, however, the receptionist straightened and cleared his throat.

"Check the feed logs from the emergency station." The receptionist withdrew. Old Man clicked through on his monitor to check the station's feeds.

The returning vessel was, for lack of a better description, tattered. It's hull was intact, but had sustained severe damage and it's starboard coils were giving odd emissions and something on it's ventral facing was leaking something else, but the visual feed didn't show that angle.

Despite investing countless hours and shelving other projects for the last few months to this business, Old Man didn't actually worry for the ship. He didn't particularly worry for the people in it, for that matter. But he was worried, alright. Someone on the ship had engaged the ship's emergency protocols to send the vessel to the station designated for distress. And it was far earlier than he'd planned. He would need to see to this personally.

Getting there meant he had to pull strings, but the old man had been pulling strings for decades. Striding to the station's sick bay, he was briefed on the way by the medical officer who had already treated what he could and met him at the loading dock.

Old Man rounded the corner and stepped through as the door slid open. Two of the bodies were already covered out of antiquated sentiment. Everyone in the room had seen death before, so Old Man wasn't sure who the doctors and nurses were trying to protect. He zeroed in on the third bed.

"What happened?" The doctor had told Old Man that the vessel's only survivor shouldn't be trying to talk, but both he and the survivor didn't give a damn.

"There was a trap." The survivor's voice was hoarse. His eyes flicked to his two companions, both dead. He swallowed and refused to look at the shadow standing at the foot of his bed, instead focusing on Old Man. "We realized too late, and set it off." Without a word, the mute shadow turned and left. Old Man was disappointed, to be honest. Old Man had always thought the shadow would have a bit more fight in him. He listened to the rest of the survivor's report.

"So you failed. Shame." Old Man had never bothered to sugarcoat things before, and he wasn't about to start. He stretched his neck from getting a crick. "Had you and your friends realized a bit sooner, we might have kept the trail alive. It's well and dead now," Old Man glanced at the shrouded figures next to them.

"No, it isn't." They both turned to the determined face of another of the survivor's friends. How different everyone looked in person, from the Old Man's files. Old Man's files pictured bright, eager faces. Old Man was familiar with the dynamic. He'd made a career of signing off on sending bright, eager faces to meet premature deaths. Those who managed to avoid such endings returned stressed and sad. "Take a look."

Old Man accepted the pad with live footage of a holding cell. So, they weren't failures, after all. He mentally re-filed the two dead as martyrs.

* * *

Chapter 1

An Important Passenger on the Taurus Express

It was torturous early on a winter's morning on the planet Sy'xenia. Alongside the docking platform at Al'reshdhury stood the merchant-class passenger liner, grandly designated in galactic guides as the Taurus Express. It included a kitchen and dining-capable bay, a suite of sleeping berths and additional coaches.

By the step leading up to the sleeping berth section of the vessel stood a young Axanar lieutenant, resplendent in uniform, conversing with a small Xoisk man muffled up to the ears of whom nothing was visible but a wind-chilled nose and the two points of upward-curled brows.

The breeze circulated a biting cold, and this job of seeing off a distinguished stranger was not one to be envied, but Lieutenant Dounosc was determined to perform his part. It wasn't the cold, but the undesirable hour that challenged the lieutenant. Graceful phrases fell from his lips in well-studied Xoisk. Lieutenant Dounosc had had to reboot his Xoisk language program on his study tablet and practice the accent. He had forgotten how tiring it was to remember to stick in pleasantries at every conceivable juncture of conversation. Xoisk culture dictated that manners and politeness ruled nearly every form of social and professional interaction. The lieutenant had stayed up until the early hours and crammed on as many pleasantries, compliments and small talk points as possible. And here he was, mere hours later, regurgitating them. He was fairly certain he was enunciating respectable Xoisk pronunciation.

He was still in the dark when it came to this whole affair. There had been rumors, of course, as there always were in such cases. The General's temper had grown worse and everyone was on edge. And then this funny little Xoisk stranger came all the way from Federation space or somewhere thereabouts. There had been a week – a week of tight lips. And then certain things had happened. A very distinguished officer beyond reproach had committed suicide, another had suddenly resigned and run off with their sweetheart. Yet another remained on duty, numbly going about their duties. The most determined gossips had not been able to coax answers from them. But the matter, mysterious as it was, seemed closed. Anxious faces had suddenly lost their anxiety and several military precautions were relaxed. And the General, Lieutenant Dounosc's own particular General, had suddenly looked years younger and moved with invisible weights removed.

Dounosc had overheard part of a conversation between him and the stranger.

"You have saved us, old friend," said the General emotionally, his bushy white mustache trembling as he spoke. "You have saved the honor of the Axanar Army – you have averted bloodshed! How can I thank you for agreeing to come? To help? You have come so far to help a friend from so long ago-"

And then the stranger, named Hilus Plormot, had broken in to make a fitting reply, dramatically saying, "Think nothing of it, I seem to remember that you saved my life, once."

Then the General had made an equally dramatic and emotional reply to that, exclaiming:

"You would have done the same for me," and the two gabled on with more mention of Axanar, of Xoisk, of glory, of honor and the two of them, feeding off of each other's bluster, reached a point of such kindred things that they embraced each other again.

As to what the matter had all been about, Lieutenant Dounosc was still in the dark, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off Plormot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with all the zeal and ardor befitting a young officer with a promising career ahead of him. During this mysterious matter, Dounosc had worried he had hung his star on the wrong general – indeed, in the wrong sector – but now it seemed to have cleared up, his prospects for a career of promotions seemed secure once more.

Lieutenant Dubosc broke the silence. "Tomorrow evening, you will be in St'aldor."

It was not the first time he made this observation. He would ordinarily be disappointed with his own lack of interpersonal skill but he'd been standing sill for too long, and this man was both a stranger and a strange man. Moreover, conversations on the platform, before the departure of a vessel, are understood to be somewhat repetitive in character.

"That is so," agreed Plormot. He graciously kept up the charade that conversations with strangers on platforms weren't the awkward affairs that they were.

"And you plan to stay there a few days, is that right?"

"Yes, that is so. St'aldor is a city I have never visited. It would be a pity to pass through at light speed and not see the sights." The little Xoisk chuckled in a vain attempt to cover how cold he felt. "For once, I have no planned itinerary. I shall be a proper tourist for at least a small while."

"The Pillars of Wisdom, they are extraordinary," said Lieutenant Dounosc, who had never seen them. In truth, he had no use for the relics of ancient alien religion, but this particular site had been one of the few to stick to his memory. Even his dismissive attitude towards ancient things had given way to the romantic imaginations of stories of people long gone, tethered to the present through such a breathtaking landmark. He shook himself. He had a General to impress.

Another cold wind came whistling down the platform. The Xoisk man shivered and both politely did not acknowledge their shared discomfort. Lieutenant Dounosc snuck a quick glance at his watch. Only five minutes more. But he couldn't be caught acting bored now; not when that could be the last impression left with the stranger who held sway with his General. He hurried to start up conversation anew.

"There won't be many people traveling this time of year," he said, glancing up at the Taurus Express vessel, which sat quiet while staff prepared her for voyage. Soon, it would be fully prepped and he could see the stranger board the vessel and retreat to warmth.

"That is so," agreed Plormot. It was indeed true. This region of space had historically been a crossroads for all of the known regions of the galaxy. Wars, prosperity, enlightenment and all manner of social and societal revolution had washed over the region. Meanwhile, alien peoples held fast to long-held traditions and mingled among strange new neighbors. Time had not always been kind to the region, and recent years were no exception. To add to changing times and political shifts in power, phal storms periodically came through – a holdover from a star with unique properties that had collapsed several millennia ago.

 **Phal** – a dusty, chalky substance, was released into the quadrant as a result. Depending on trajectory patterns and numerous other factors, phal would float through the void of space, relatively harmless. During the more "wintry" seasons of the quadrant, phal would collect into a blizzard. Unprepared vessels caught up in phal storms were frequently left drifting, phal collecting into every exhaust core and docking porthole, cutting off communications and rending the vessel dead in the void.

"Let us hope you will not be phalled up in the Taurus!" Lieutenant Dounosc joked.

"That happens?" It became clear the strange Xoisk was not accustomed to the realities of travel in this region. Phal storms could be serious occurrences anywhere within the next several parsecs.

"Yes. It has not happened yet this season, but the season is young."

"Let us hope, then," said Plormot. "The galactic void condition reports from Federation space, they tell of poor conditions overall."

"Very bad. In the Batrau region, there are reports of phal storms."

"In Antaran space, too, I have heard."

"Ah, well," Lieutenant Dounosc floundered for something to fill the ensuing silence. "Tomorrow evening at seven-forty you will be in orbit around Cophrates." Another ancient planet of renown.

"Yes," Plormot was also desperate to maintain dignified conversation, driven by the cold. "The Pillars of Wisdom, I have heard are very fine."

"Wonderful, I think."

Above them, the curtains of one of the sleeping berths twitched aside and a young human looked out.

Hannah Lee achingly rubbed her temples. She had not slept much since she left Ghavad the previous Thursday. Not on the vessel from Suelok nor in the hotel at Morvud, nor last night on the Taurus Express had she slept properly. Now, weary of lying wakeful in her compartment which had become overheated, she peered out.

This must be Al'reshdhury, on Sy'xenia. Nothing to see, of course. She'd missed that opportunity when the Taurus Express was orbiting Sy'xenia. She could only see the long, poorly lit platform with staffers jockeying back and forth, shouting in Axanarian, sometimes cursing in lesser-known dialects to avoid being told off by supervisors. The two men below her window were speaking … Xoisk? Judging by the Axanarian military man's efforts to form his lips, he was speaking in a second or third language. The smaller man fit the description of a typical Xoisk, as much as could be expected, all bundled up like that.

But the prominent nose poking out from the folds of his scarf, the impressively full brows expressively responding to his Axanarian companion made her fairly confident in her estimations. Checking the compartment's control module and smiling faintly, she wasn't sure when she'd seen anyone so heavily bundled for temperatures that hovered at just above freezing. She again massaged her temples and envied the crisp air and plumes of frozen breath from the two men below while she sweltered in stuffed quarters. With the exception of Andorians, why did so many species, from Vulcans to Sighnarhians insist on such warm environmental settings?

The ship's purser had come up to the two men. The vessel was about to depart. The passenger had better mount the extended gangway so the ship could depart. The little man removed his hat to bid farewell, revealing a Xoisk head, so ovular and shaped like an egg. Through the ache in her head, Hannah Lee smiled again. She'd only ever seen Xoisk people from afar before, and in pictures, but they all had hats, full heads of hair or were too distant to pick up details. This man had thinning hair, revealing the true shape of his cranium. By human standards, he was somewhat comical; one would find it difficult to take him seriously.

Lieutenant Dounosc was delivering his parting speech. He had thought it out, inwardly rehearsed it, beforehand and had saved it until the last moments. It was dignified and polished. Plormot could not be one-upped, and he launched into a gracious response. Both ignored the ship's purser who stood aside and allowed the display of hospitality trade with displays of upmost thanks for hospitality.

"This way, sir," the purser gently encouraged the little Xoisk man once his response came to a pause. The purser had smoothly timed breaking in to discourage any further flourishes of gallantry.

With a dramatic air of bittersweet emotions Mr. Plormot ascended the gangway, the purser dutifully following. Plormot waved with some solemnity and Lieutenant Dounosc returned with an equally grave salute. At the purser's deft signal to the pilot, the vessel jerked and withdrew the gangway, sealing hatches and firing up launch sequences. Neither Plormot nor the purser viewed the Lieutenant Dounosc as he stamped his feet to renew feeling in them before beginning an undignified scamper back to warmer refuge.

"There you are, sir." The purser gave a well-practiced flourish to reveal Plormot's sleeping compartment, with his luggage neatly arranged and his berth ready for a lie down. Once the purser had received a tip of several credits into a suggestive hand, he became brisk and down to business. He collected Hilus Plormot's ticket and passcard, and verified that he would disembark in St'aldor.

"There are not many people traveling this region at this time, no?" Plormot asked, reflecting on what he had learned from Lieutenant Dounosc of the fluctuating amounts of phal in the region and it's effects on travel patterns.

"No, sir. I have only two other passengers – both human as it were. A Lieutenant traveling from Kaleshdu and a young woman from Ghavad. Do you require anything, sir?"

Plormot requested a bottle of Vadu – a popular form of water rich in minerals that aid Xoisk physiology during stressful periods such as space travel or illness. Traveling with humans aboard, the Vadu would be especially welcome.

Plormot, like many species, likely most if one were to be honest, had never been been fully at ease around humans. They were from a death world, for one thing; their home planet hosted madness as far as climates, tectonics and gravity were concerned. Granted, using the term death world to describe humanity's home planet was misleading; it's harsh extremes had somehow launched a biosphere teaming with life. Then again, the madness of their planet had resulted in no less than six – six, imagine! - mass extinctions, so perhaps the term was most fitting. At least the Vulcans, for all their superior strength and even more crushing gravity, had the decency to hail from a planet with consistent climate environments. Earth, from what he knew, sounded like a nightmarish world, and they apparently lived all over the place. And they were omnivorous, having descended from predators willing to eat … seemingly everything.

Vulcans had forgone animal proteins from their diets in another era. Denobulans had, as far as he was aware, always been vegetarian, with the occasional supplements of animal byproducts; eggs and the like. Xoisk males like himself evolved to process only plant-based forms of nutrition while females supplemented their diets with the occasional dose of larvae during critical stages of development.

Meanwhile, humans had pursued their prey relentlessly. Plormot gave an internal shiver, this time unrelated to the chill from outside. Imagine chasing something so far and for such a time that the prey simply collapses! The horror. The humans had moved on to lab-grown and replicated meats and would grandly assure their galactic neighbors that they would never dream of killing and eating an innocent animal these days, let alone a fellow sentient.

Still, upon encountering humans, Plormot's ancestral instincts never failed to give him an initial discomfiture until his higher processing could wrestle it away and treat them as he would treat any other sentient being. It couldn't be easy being met by the only other deathworlders, Vulcans and Andorians, and to be looked down upon by both. And Klingons had been entirely dismissive. Then to turn to other galactic neighbors and have a fearful reception.

Vulcans had promptly spread word that humans were turbulent omnivorous heathens from another, even more horrific deathworld. A single human's mouth could host an oral biome that consisted of at least six billion bacteria. Once humans had gotten around to greeting everyone, they were met with fear and suspicion. To their credit, they didn't seem to take it too personally. And as it happened, such a turbulent planet had given rise to myriad languages and cultures, some of them suitably temperate and non-threatening.

Having boarded the Taurus at such an early time local time, Plormot had not been able to sleep as much as normal, so he happily curled into his berth and slept.

Waking at half-past nine, he left his quarters in search of the dining cabin. While making his way, he pondered how long it would take to make contact with the humans on board. He had met his fair share before, of course … still.

The only other occupant at the moment was a young woman – the one referenced by the purser. She was slim and dark. Plormot was somewhat familiar with human stages of development, and she seemed both a grown adult and fairly young – perhaps in her mid twenties? It was difficult to tell with her. There was a cool efficiency in the way she ate her breakfast and in the way she called to the attendant to bring her more tea, which demonstrated a cultured knowledge of the quadrant and of traveling.

Hilus Plormot, with nothing else to do, amused himself by covertly studying her.

He hypothesized she was the sort of woman who could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had an ingrained poise and efficiency. He appreciated the beauty of her features, human though they were, and the delicate tone of her skin. He liked that her hair, shiny and dark, was neat. It was rather severely gathered and pinned into a polished twist. And her eyes – cool, impersonal and dark. But she was cold, Plormot's romantic side decided, and too efficient and stoic to be a pretty woman.

Another person entered the restaurant car. The lieutenant coming from Kaleshdu. He was a very tall man of an indeterminate age – a very aged man in his late twenties? A well-aged thirty-something? His profiled face exuded both a gleaming intelligence and a weary sense of duty. And Plormot amended his estimation of the man's height. He was certainly taller than Plormot himself, but that would not be difficult for a human, or several other species. Xoisk physiology was one of the shorter ones in the known quadrant. He was likely average or perhaps even slight for a human male, but gave the impression of grand height due to his lean frame and confident carriage.

The human gave a nod to the girl. "Morning, Miss Lee."

"Good morning, Lieutenant Keller." The lieutenant was standing with a hand on the back of the chair opposite her.

"Any objections?" he asked.

"Of course not. Please sit." He sat with some ginger awkwardness, favoring his left side, and a corner of Plormot's mind began imagining how he had come to be injured. Perhaps in the line of duty? Perhaps it was why he traveled alone in a passenger vessel, rather than a troop vessel. He hadn't walked with any particular limp as far as Plormot had noticed. The lieutenant ordered eggs and coffee.

The human lieutenant's eyes swept the room, resting for a moment on Hilus Plormot, but they passed on with indifference. Plormot knew that the predatory omnivore had said to himself: "Only some small alien. Not a threat."

The two humans were not particularly talkative, contrary to the Vulcan description of an overly emotional species who wore their hearts on their sleeves for everything. Plormot chuckled to himself. Most of the humans he'd met had fallen short of Vulcan description. Perhaps it spoke to a Vulcan sense of gossipy drama than of any of their descriptions of others. The pointy-eared ascetics were condescending to just about everyone. Humans were certainly more emotional than Vulcans, and were entirely inscrutable to Curleskans, which was a fairly low bar. To the rest of the galaxy, humans were less notable for their emotions than for their glaring diversity within the one species.

That disastrous planet had given rise to all sorts of ethnic groups, religions, dozens of civilizations and cultural categories, with dozens more subcategories each, and hundreds of languages. Part of the galaxy's shock and reserve towards humans was nested in the realization that an omnivorous predator species could come with such physical variety. Some had evolved perfecting their hunting in the deserts, others tundras, jungles and everything in between. Some were quite small while others were absolutely gargantuan – and it was all due to their ancestral lineage of breeding into predators specialized for all manner of harsh environments. An entire species of highly specialized pursuit predators unleashed into the galaxy at large had caused quite the stir.

The other humans he'd met were certainly not the exaggerated caricatures the Vulcans had described, nor were they the dishonorable weaklings of Andorian opinion. In Plormot's experience, these two were rather reserved, though, even by human standards. They exchanged a few brief pleasantries – a very Xoisk trait, Plormot thought with approval, pleasantries – and then the girl stood and went back to her compartment.

At lunch the other two again shared a table. Again, they both completely ignored the third passenger, Plormot. But they seemed to have warmed to each other some and their conversation was more animated than at breakfast. Lieutenant Keller talked of the Qarund people of the region in Kaleshdu where he'd been stationed. He occasionally asked the girl a few questions about Ghavad where, it was revealed, she had been in a post as an instructor. In the course of conversation they discovered some mutual friends, and their conversation became friendlier and less reserved.

Before, the lieutenant seemed to have been asking questions as a way to test her. Perhaps it was a question of worthiness. He seemed to Plormot to be a very rigid man, but the woman had answered with that same unruffled efficiency Plormot had come to expect from her. By the time their mutual friends had surfaced, Keller had seemed satisfied. They discussed old Charlie Somebody and Beth Someone Else. The Lieutenant inquired whether she was going straight through to Federation space or whether she was stopping in St'aldor.

"No, I'm going straight through." Her response was again correct and efficient.

"Isn't that rather a pity?" There was a sense he was back to testing her again.

"I came out this way on my way to Ghavad. I spent several days in St'aldor then." Such a well-traveled woman, Plormot wondered. It was rare for humans to make it this far out, being so new to the galactic stage. That was quickly changing, but for a young lone female to be so well traveled this far out was an accomplishment, indeed.

"Oh, I see. Well, if I may say so, I'm glad you are going through, because I am." He made a clumsy bow as he stood, flushing as he did so. Humans blushed a pinkish color. She evenly responded that that would be nice. He accompanied her back to her compartment.

'He is susceptible, this Lieutenant,' thought Hilus Plormot to himself with deep amusement. 'Hopping the void, it is as dangerous as anywhere!'

Later they passed through the magnificent scenery of the Taurus sector. They gathered in the observation deck, with large viewing ports that nearly spanned the walls, they looked out towards the Psillysian Gates, a phenomena of extraordinarily beautiful coronal clouds emanating from a highly turbulent star. A sigh from the woman. Plormot was standing near them and heard her murmur:

"It's so beautiful! I just wish ..."

"Yes?"

"I wish I could enjoy it."

Keller did not answer immediately. The line of his jaw tensed and struck a stern, grim visage.

"I wish you were out of all this," he finally answered.

"Stop, please. Not now."

"It's just," he shot a slightly annoyed glance in Plormot's direction. "I don't like the idea of your being a traveling instructor – careening around the galaxy to teach the brats of whomever pays the most. It's not yet entirely safe for lone humans, and I'm sure you could earn a decent amount at a proper establishment."

She laughed with an unusual hint of abandon.

"Don't worry about that. The lone damsel in distress is an antiquated myth. It's my employers who are often afraid of me." They said no more. Keller was seemed to be hiding shame from his outburst.

It was rather an odd scene he had witnessed, and Plormot pondered on it. He decided to file it away so he could remember this thought later. Turning curious conversations over in his mind often helped him pass the time.

They arrived at Ahuok that night about half-past eleven. The two human travelers got out to stretch their legs, pacing up and down the cold, slippery platform.

At first, Plormot contentedly watched the teeming activity of the station through his compartment view port. Then, he reasoned it would be another day or so before he would get to breathe true atmosphere. He fastidiously prepared, given his Xoisk preferences for warm and balmy environments. He dressed as he had when waiting with the Axanar lieutenant to board the Taurus Express. He layered on several coats, scarves and mufflers and, glancing at the miserably damp conditions outside, pulled on boots. He stepped carefully down the gangway to the station platform and began to pace its length. Beyond the bow of the ship, he spied two figures shrouded in the vessel's shadow. The voice of the human male told Plormot of both their identities.

"Darling -" He was interrupted.

"No. Not now. When it's done. When it's behind us. Then ..." she trailed off.

Plormot turned away. He was nosy by nature, and sorely wished to stay and eavesdrop on drama. He equally knew, however, that for all their famed gregariousness, humans valued their privacy. They would not take kindly to a little alien spying on their obvious attempt to carry on a discussion in private. Still, what he had heard would entertain him for now, to turn over and over in his head. He had hardly recognized that cool, efficient voice of Miss Lee. Curious.

The next day he wondered whether they had quarreled. They spoke very little to each other. The girl, he thought, looked tired. She would occasionally massage her temples, trying to be discreet. It might have fooled some, but Hilus Plormot was experienced enough to realize otherwise. The lieutenant seemed to have taken up orbit around her; giving her space and feigning indifference towards her.

It was mid afternoon when the humming engines quieted and the ship came to a decided halt. Heads poked out of compartments. A knot of crewmen donned bulky EVA suits and stepped into the void. They clustered around the engine ports beneath the dining bay's window, pointing and gesticulating to each other as they discussed whatever it was they found.

Plormot stopped the Taurus Express's purser as he hurried past. The man answered Plormot's questions and pressed on. Plormot turned and almost ran into Miss Hannah Lee who had somehow appeared just behind him.

"What's happened?" She asked him in Xoisk, just barely accented, which took him aback. Definitely well educated. "Why have we stopped?"

"It is nothing, Miss. It is a minor amount of phal that has stopped up one of the engine ports. Nothing serious. They are cleaning it out. There is no danger, I assure you."

She made a small, dismissive gesture, brushing aside the idea of danger as something entirely irrelevant.

"Yes, I understand that. But the time!"

"The time?"

"Yes, this will delay us."

"That is possible, yes," Plormot agreed.

"But we can't afford a delay! This ship is due to arrive at St'aldor at 6.55, and one has to cross the Bosphorus river to reach the Uoldims station on the other side to catch the Orion Express at nine o'clock. If there is an hour or two delay, we will miss the connection." The Orion Express, an intergalactic nexus through parts of Axanar, Orion and Federation space.

"It is possible, yes," he admitted. Her fears were soundly reasoned. His curiosity spiked. Her hand that rested on the dining room's view port window did not look quite steady. Her face looked set in concentration … Well, well, well! Her human eyes were pigmented such a dark shade compared to Xoisk physiology he could not normally pick out her pupils, but this close and with the room's bright lighting, they did not look entirely even to each other. Perhaps this was typical of humans under stress? Some type of oscillation? He was certain she was not the type to use recreational substances that would result in uneven pupil dilation.

"Does it matter to you that much, Miss?"

"I must catch that ship." She turned away and went across the dining room to join Lieutenant Keller.

Her worries were short-lived, however. Ten minutes later, the heat sink in the engine port had been cleaned and the ship started again. It arrived at Nallad-uphah station only five minutes late, having made up time on the way.

The Bosphorus was rough and Plormot did not enjoy the crossing. He separated from his traveling companions on the ferry. She had seemed oddly happy to stay on the deck to enjoy the wind and spray from the water or some nonsense. At least the lieutenant didn't seem so eager to risk choppy waters and remained inside, disappearing to another section available to passengers.

On arrival at the Galata Bridge he took a hovering taxi straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.


	2. The Tokatlian Hotel

At the Tokatlian, Hilus Plormot asked for a room with a bath. Then he side-stepped to the concierge's desk and inquired for any messages.

There was a subspace communication. The subspace comm read:

'Development in Prinakq case. Please return immediately.'

"Something has come up," muttered Plormot, vexed. He glanced up at the clock. "Instead of a room with a bath, I need to travel on tonight," he amended to the concierge. "At what time does the Orion leave the Uoldims station?"

"Nine o'clock, sir."

"Can you get me a compartment?"

"Certainly, sir. There should be no difficulty at this time of year. The vessels are usually almost empty."

"Excellent. Book one for me."

"Very good, sir. How far are you going?"

"To Iser." One of the major planets of Federation space, the Iserians were proud Federation members.

"Very good, sir. I will get you a ticket to Iser and reserve your sleeping berth accommodation from St'aldor to Sioloc, where the Orion Express stops. From Sioloc, you will be able to take a shuttle to Iser."

Plormot checked the wall clock again. It was just before eight. "Do I have time to eat?"

"Of course, sir."

The little Xoisk nodded. He canceled his room order and crossed the hall to the restaurant. As he gave his order to the waiter, a hand tapped on his shoulder.

"What a wonderful surprise!" a voice spoke from behind.

The speaker was a short, stout, younger man, his hair a bit fuller than Plormot's own. He smiled with delight as Plormot sprang up.

"Douqh!" Izu Douqh was a Xoisk, a director of Agate Incorporated, an intergalactic company of merchant ships. Douqh's friendship with the legendary Xoisk dated back many years, to his days with the Xoisk police force.

"You find yourself far from home, my friend," said Douqh.

"A little affair in Sy'xenia."

"Ah!" Douqh knew what that meant. Plormot often used the term 'little affair' to infer a case. "And when do you return home, then?"

"Tonight."

"Excellent! So do I. That is, I go as far as Eusal, where I have affairs. You travel on the Orion, yes?"

"Yes. I have just asked them to book me a berth. It was originally my plan to stay here for some time, but I have received a subspace communication recalling me to Federation space on a little affair."

"Woah," Douqh exlaimed. "Affairs, affairs … you are in such high demand!"

"I have had some small success, I suppose." Hilus Plormot made an attempt to look modest but, as was typical for him, decisively failed. Douqh laughed in response.

"I'll leave you to your meal, and I'll see you soon." He bade his old friend goodbye for now and Plormot started on his dinner.

Having eaten, he sat back and settled into watching other patrons, a favored pastime. There were several others in the restaurant, but two in particular took his interest.

These two sat at a nearby table, quite mismatched. One was younger, and the other older. The younger was an agreeable-type, and gave an aura of likability. He was a young Axanar man of perhaps thirty or so, clearly a Federate. It was, however, not him but his table-mate that took the little Xoisk's attention.

He was a human, hovering somewhere between sixty and seventy. From afar, he could be easily dismissed as a typical bland businessman. He was slowly balding, had a domed forehead and a smiling mouth that revealed very white teeth that he estimated were false. He gave the impression of a benevolent personality. It was his eyes – humans and their eyes – that belied this assumption. They were small, deep-set and crafty. As the man made some remark to his young companion, his gaze stopped on Plormot for a moment.

Just for that moment, there was a primal alien malevolence, an unnatural intensity in his glance.

Then he stood.

"Pay the bill, Wroe'bex." he said, his tone slightly husky. His voice was soft, with a dangerous quality.

When Plormot rejoined his friend in the lounge, the other two men were just leaving the hotel. Their luggage was being brought down and the younger man supervised the process. He opened the front door and called in:

"Ready now, Mr. Evered."

The older man grunted an assent and followed.

"Well," Plormot said, nudging his friend and gesturing. "What do you think of those two?"

"They are Federates," responded Douqh. "Returning to Federation space." As unimaginative as ever.

"Certainly they are Federates. I meant what did you think of their personalities?"

"The young man seemed quite agreeable."

"And the other?" Plormot pressed Douqh.

"Well, I honestly did not care for him. He gives off an unpleasant impression for me. And you?"

Hilus Plormot took a moment to reply.

"When he passed me in the restaurant," he began at last, "I had a visceral feeling. It was as though an animal, a _wild_ beast, you understand, had looked me in the eye. And passed me by."

"But he is dressed so well and walks like one of the upmost esteem." He had the diplomacy to leave 'for a human' unsaid.

"Exactly! His clothing, his body, is a mask or sorts. Everything is affixed and just so, but through the bars, the wild animal looks out."

"You are being dramatic," said Douqh. "Humans have been wandering about for a small while now, and despite fear mongering from some in the Federation," he graciously left Vulcans unnamed, "I have met only the most upstanding of specimens from humanity."

"Perhaps. But I could not shake myself free from the feeling that evil had come round, considered, then just brushed past me."

"That old, respectable Federate gentleman?"

"That old, respectable Federate gentleman."

A beat.

"Well," said Douqh rather cheerfully, "perhaps you're right. There's always a grain of it. There is so much evil in the galaxy."

The door opened and the concierge came towards them, his tail twitching.

"Sir," he said to Plormot. "There is no sleeping berth available for purchase on the Orion Express."

"What?" cried Douqh. "At this time of year? There must be some party of journalists, or politicians passing through…?"

"I don't know, sir," said the concierge respectfully. "But that is how it is." It was clear he was not fully comfortable delivering bad news to one of the directors of Agate Incorporated, but it was what it was and there was no way around it.

"Well."Douqh turned to Plormot. "Don't worry, my friend. We will arrange something. There is always one compartment, which is kept empty for moments like these. The purser sees to that! Come." He became brisk, having reverted to his professional mode. "We should get going."

At the Uoldims station, Douqh was greeted with respectful deference by the uniformed Agate Incorporated purser.

"Good evening, sir. Your compartment is the No. 1." He called to the porters and they wheeled their load halfway along the platform. The vessel's hull plate, located underneath it's proudly emblazoned name, Orion Express, was programmed to update at each station. It currently read:

St'aldor – Tristan III – Sioloc

"You are full up tonight, I hear?" Douqh inquired of the ship's purser.

"Yes, sir. It seems all the sector has decided to travel tonight, it's unbelievable."

"Regardless, you must find room for this gentleman here. He is a personal friend of mine. He can take the No. 16."

"It is taken, sir."

"What?" A pause. "The No. 16?"

"Yes, sir. As I say, we are absolutely full. Everywhere."

"How could this be?" Douqh demanded. He spent several minutes making grandiose hand gestures as he explained to the purser _just_ who his friend was. Mr. Plormot, he was wonderful, famed and distinguished. "No one travels in this sector this time of year!" He had finally blustered himself up and gotten angry. "Is there a conference somewhere? A wedding?"

"I don't think so, sir. It seems to be chance. It just happens that many people have booked travel this evening. We had to turn other passengers away as it is."

Douqh clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"At Epuhled," Douqh reasoned aloud, "there will be the coach from Phixulis. There will also be the Gaboly – Yenes coach. But we do not reach Epuhled until tomorrow evening. The problem is for tonight. There is no second-class berth free, you are certain?"

"Well, there is a second-class berth, sir-"

"Well, then-"

"But it is a lady's berth. It is shared. And there is already a Betazoid woman in the compartment – a lady's maid, I think."

"Oh, that is awkward," said Douqh.

"Don't worry yourself, friend," said Plormot. "I can travel in one of the staff quarter berths." It was unheard of for all staffing berths to be filled at a single given time. The purser had started nodding in agreement to Plormot's suggestion, but Douqh cut in.

"No. I won't hear of it." He turned again to the purser. "Has everyone arrived?" The purser deliberated over his manifest. After staring at the screen for a rather long time, he looked up.

"It seems," he said at last, drawing out his words, "that there is one passenger who has not yet checked in." He spoke slowly, hesitating.

"Go on!"

"No. 7 berth – a second-class. The gentleman has not yet come, and it is four minutes to nine."

"Who is it?" Douqh, as determined as he was, could not boot just anyone from their reservation.

"A Federate," the purser consulted his list again. "A Mr. Harris."

"Stow Mr. Plormot's luggage in No. 7," Douqh said, all business now. "If Mr. Harris arrives, he will be told he is too late and that berths cannot be retained so close to departure. We handle it if it comes to that. What do I care for a Mr. Harris?" He winked at Plormot.

"Of course, sir," the purser replied. He turned and spoke to a waiting porter, now assigned to Plormot's luggage, directing him where to go. Then he stood aside from the gangway to let Plormot enter the train.

Plormot passed along the corridor with stilted progress, since most of the people traveling were standing outside their quarters. His polite "Excuse me" was repeted many times as he sidled around many obstacles. Finally he reached his assigned compartment. The axanar, the tall young Federate man from the Tokatlian was reaching up to a suitcase. He frowned as Plormot peered in.

"Excuse me," he spoke in Common, a language designed for Federation usage. Then he stopped himself, continuing laboriously in stumbling Xoisk: "I think you have made an error."

Plormot replied in Common: "You are Mr. Harris?"

"No, my name is Qozz. I-" But protestations he was preparing were cut off by the Agate Inc. purser, who spoke from over Plormot's shoulder.

"There is no other berth on the ship, sir. The gentleman has to come in here." The purser spoke in a deeply apologetic but firm voice. He squeezed by Plormot to enter the compartment and began to lift Plormot's luggage.

Plormot noticed the measurable regret in the purser's tone with some amusement. If he were to guess, the man had been promised a good tip if he could keep the compartment for the sole use of this Mr. Qozz. However, even the most hefty tips lose their weight when a director of the company is on board and personally gives the orders.

"There we go, sir," the purser announced. "Your things are stowed, and we take off in one minute."

The purser hurried off down the hall. Plormot entered the compartment. His bunk mate smiled that affable smile. He had apparently gotten over his initial indignation and concluded that the matter was best handled philosophically.

"The ship is remarkably full," he commented in a conversational tone.

The ship's lift off tone whistle sounded over the comm, the engine groaned and the vessel trembled with exertion against the planet's gravity. The trembling smoothed into a shiver which in turn smoothed into a purr.

"We're off," said Mr. Qozz. There was a sudden jerk. Both men swung round into the window, looking out at the planet falling away from them. The Orion Express had started on its journey through the void.


	3. Plormot Refuses a Case

Hilus Plormot was a bit late in entering the dining compartment. He had risen early, breakfasted alone and had spent the morning reviewing notes of the case that had recalled him to Iser.

Douqh, already seated for lunch, waved a greeting that beckoned his friend to the seat he had saved opposite him. Plormot took it, gratefully realizing it was the most opportunely placed seat, to be served first with the choicest of food options. The food was unusually, remarkably good, even for a luxurious passenger ship. The upmost effort in food preparation had been taken, and the food was therefore unusually good. The two friends tucked in and enjoyed the luxuries of rich food and exquisite desserts.

"Ah!" Douqh sighed, having overindulged himself. He was in good company. "Now, I am satiated, I feel a sense of poetry for this scene." Plormot agreed, dabbing the napkin to his mouth. "Truly," Douqh continued, happy to elaborate, "there is a certain dramatic aura, my friend. All around us are people, of all species, of all sectors, classes, nationalities. Of all ages. For several days these people, all strangers to each other, are brought together. They sleep and eat within one hull, they are pressed together, cannot get away from each other. At the end of their journey they part, go their separate ways, perhaps to never see each other again." The weight of his tone enlisted an additional sense of drama.

"And yet," Plormot couldn't help himself, "suppose something unfortunate … an accident-"

"No, my friend. Come now-"

"From your perspective it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it." Suppose, indeed. 'Accidents' of all manner seemed magnetically attracted to Plormot. "Then, perhaps, all these here are linked together – by death." Douqh was not the only one for a flair for drama.

"Some more wine," Douqh hastily replied, pouring it out. "You are morbid, dear friend. It is, perhaps, the space lag that feeds your imagination."

Plormot sipped his wine. Leaning back, he ran his eye thoughtfully around the dining room. There were thirteen other people seated and, as Douqh had said, of all classes and nationalities. He began to study them.

At the table opposite them were three men. They were, he guessed, single travelers placed together by the restaurant attendants. A dark, broad-shouldered human was chatting with charismatic ease. Opposite him was a spare neat antaran with the expressionless disapproving face of a seasoned steward. Next to the antaran was a big green orion man in a loud suit, looking like a commercial traveler.

"You've got to boot the docking protocols early to use them at all," the orion man was saying with confidence.

The human flashed a set of pearly teeth.

"Sure," he agreed. "That's what I say all the time." It seemed the deep tensions between orions and humans did not extend to these two. Interstellar travel could make bedfellows of all, it seemed.

The antaran looked out of the window and swept a hand across his ridges. Plormot's eye passed on.

At a small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction – it fascinated rather than repelled. She sat so very upright. Around her neck was a string of enormous, lustrous brizhkan pearls which, however improbable, were most certainly real. Her hands were covered with rings. Her coat of some alien luxury fur was pushed back on her shoulders. A very small and expensive black toque was hideously unbecoming to the yellowed, toad-like antaran face beneath it.

She gave directions to the restaurant attendant in a courteous, autocratic tone that brokered no room for leeway. She listed her demands of having a bottle of mineral water and thenado juice placed in her compartment. She did not pause for the attendant's notes before continuing on with exacting instructions on her food choices. The attendant respectfully replied that it would be done and she gave a small nod and rose. Her glance caught Plormot's and swept over him with the nonchalance of the uninterested aristorat.

"That is Princess Nehn," said Douqh in a low voice after she'd left. "She is of the Antaran royal line. Her husband realized all his money prior to the Revolution of Antar and invested it abroad. She is extremely rich. A true cosmopolitan." Plormot nodded. He had heard of Princess Nehn. "She is a personality," Douqh continued. "Maybe the ugliest antaran, but she makes herself felt." Plormot agreed. But her presence explained why the food was of particular quality.

At another of the large tables Hannah Lee was sitting with two other women. One of them was a tall and middle-aged denobulan in restrictive clothes. She had a mass of faded yellow hair arranged in a bun that was rather poorly done. She wore thick glasses and had a large amiable face somewhat like a dolma, likened to a sheep. She was listening to the third woman, an exceedingly beautiful, elderly risian. Truly, though she was aged, she was undeniably attractive. It was she who was talking in a slow monotone which showed no signs of pausing for breath or coming to a stop.

"-and so my daughter said, 'Why,' she said, 'you just can't apply Risian methods in this sector. It's natural to the folks here to be as they are,' she said. 'They just haven't got any hustle in them -' But all the same you'd be surprised to know what our academy there is doing. They've got a fine staff of teachers. I guess there's nothing like education. We've got to apply our Federation ideals and teach the Orions to recognize them. My daughter says -"

The vessel's sensors detected an obstruction and automatically dropped from it's low lightspeed into sublight speeds. The streaks of stars condensed into swimming orbs and pinpricks as the Orion Express plunged into a minor asteroid belt. The monotonous voice was drowned by the pitter-patter of impacts to the viewport windows and hull.

At the next table, sat Lieutenant Keller, alone. His steady gaze was fixed on the back of Hannah Lee's dark, perfectly twisted hair. They were not sitting together, although it could easily have been arranged. Were they still put off from one another?

Perhaps, Plormot reasoned, Hannah Lee had demurred. A lone traveling academic and instructor learned to be careful. Appearances are important and extra attachments were a turn-off for respectable families wishing to employ instructors, no matter the sector. An academic who wants to travel freely from posting to posting has her living to get and has to be discreet with any significant attachments.

His glance shifted to the other section of the dining room. At the far end, against the wall, was a middle-aged betazoid woman dressed in black with a broad, expressionless face. The betazoid lady's maid.

Beyond her were a couple leaning forward and talking together. The man wore a fine suit in Federation style, but he was not a Federate, exactly. Though only the back of his head was visible to Plormot, his species and status were obvious to Plormot. A big andorian man, well-made. He turned his head suddenly and Plormot saw his profile. A very handsome young man somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties with rich blue skin, silver hair and stately antennae.

The andorian woman opposite him was a mere girl. Perhaps nineteen or twenty at the very oldest. She was easily both the youngest and most objectively beautiful passenger aboard, regardless of species preference. A little black coat, painstakingly tailored, with a long skirt to match, white satin blouse. The outfit was topped with a small, stylish black hat, pinned to perch at an outrageous angle, as dictated by fashion.

She had a beautifully alien face. Such icily pale blue skin, large crystal eyes, dead white hair. Her elegant antennae gave subtle, poised reactions in conversation. She was sipping a steaming tea cup held in manicured hands with scarlet nails that contrasted with her delicately blue hue. She wore a single emerald gemstone set in some precious metal. There was a beautiful coyness in her glance and voice.

"She is beautiful, and chic," murmured Plormot. "Husband and wife?" Douqh nodded.

"Andorian Embassy, I believe," he said. "A handsome couple." Clearly. It was likely Andoria favored the photogenic faces that served many of the galaxy's first glimpse of andorians.

There were only two more at lunch – Plormot's fellow traveler Qozz and his employer, Mr. Evered, as Douqh had informed him. The latter sat facing Plormot, and for the second time Plormot studied that unprepossessing face, noting the false benevolence of the brow and the small, cruel eyes.

Douqh saw a change in his friend's expression. "It is at your wild animal you look?" he asked. Plormot nodded.

As Plormot's after-meal tea was brought to him, Douqh stood. He had started before Plormot, and he had finished some time ago.

"I'm going back to my quarters," he said. "Come along when you're done and we'll chat." Plormot assented.

Plormot sipped his tea and ordered a liqueur. Semi-retirement life combined with luxury passage meant he could imbibe as he pleased. The attendant was passing from table to table with his box of money, accepting payment for bills. The elderly risian lady's voice rose to a shill and plaintive pitch.

"My daughter said: 'Take a book of Federate food tickets and you'll have no trouble – no trouble at all.' Now, that isn't so. Seems they have to have a tip, and then there's that bottle of mineral water – and an odd sort of water, too. They didn't have any of the brands from Risa, which seems odd to me."

"It is – how do you say – they are traditional, … typical, to serve the water of the sector," explained the sheep-faced lady.

"Well, it seems odd to me." She looked distastefully at the heap of credits on the table in front of her. "Look at all this peculiar change he's given me. Just a lot of varied metals, odds and ends, it looks like! On Risa, you're able to prepay in advance and present any further payment at the end if you exceeded your estimated expenditures – all straightforward and simple. My daughter said-"

Hannah Lee pushed back her chair, gave a respectful bow to the other two and left. Lieutenant Keller waited a moment, then got up and followed her out. Gathering up her despised physical money, the risian woman followed suit, followed by the other one, very much like a sheep. The andorians had already departed. The dining room was now empty save for Plormot, Evered and Qozz.

Evered spoke to Qozz, who got up and left the room. Then he rose, but instead of following his companion he dropped unexpectedly into the seat opposite Plormot.

"My name is Evered." His voice was soft.

Plormot bowed his head slightly.

"I think," the human went on, "that I have the pleasure of speaking to Hilus Plormot. Is that so?" Plormot nodded again.

"You have been correctly informed, good sir." The detective was conscious of those strange, shrewd eyes summing him up before the other spoke again.

"In my region," he said, "we come to the point quickly. Plormot, I want you to take on a job for me." Hilus Plormot's bushy eyebrows raised slightly.

"My clientele, sir, is limited these days. I undertake very few cases."

"Naturally, I understand. But this, Plormot, means big money." He repeated again persuasively in his soft voice. "Big money." Hilus Plormot was silent a moment. Then:

"What is it you wish for me to do, Mr. Evered?"

"Mr. Plormot, I am a rich man – very rich. Men in my position have enemies. I have an enemy. I fear for my safety."

"Safety?"

"My life has been threatened, Plormot. Now, I'm a man who can take pretty good care of myself." From the inside pocket of his coat he brought a small phase pistol into sight for just a moment. He continued, "I'm not the kind of guy to be caught napping. But, as I see it, I might as well make double sure. I think you're the man for my money, Mr. Plormot. Remember – big money."

Plormot considered him thoughtfully for a minute. His face was one simply of thought.

"I regret, sir," he said at length, "that I cannot accept your case."

Those eyes searched him shrewdly. "Name your figure, then," he said. Plormot shook his head.

"You misunderstand, sir. I have been very successful in my profession. Fortunate, you could say. I have made enough money to satisfy both my needs and my desires. I take now only cases that," the briefest of pauses, "interest me." Those eyes glittered at him. Again, Plormot felt an ancient part of him shiver at the presence of a predator.

"You've got some nerve." A hint of nastiness, then an abrupt business offer: "Will twenty thousand credits tempt you?"

"It will not."

"If you're holding out for more, you won't get it. I know what a thing is worth to me."

"I, also, Mr. Evered."

"What's wrong with my offer?" Such a calculating look. Plormot rose.

"If you will forgive me for being personal – I do not like your face, Mr. Evered." With that he left the dining room.


	4. A Cry in the Night

The Orion Express arrived at Epuhled at quarter to nine that evening. It was not due to depart again until 9.15, so Plormot descended to the platform to stretch. He did not, however, remain there long. The atmosphere was pungent with a variety of rocket fuels and lubricants to maintain gravity well machinery, and though the platform was outfitted with air filters, the aroma curled into noses and gills and other sensory organs in persons along the platform. He returned to his compartment. The purser, who was on the platform dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief and blowing his nose to waylay the particulate scents, spoke to him.

"Your luggage has been moved, sir. To the compartment No. 1, the compartment of Mr. Douqh."

"But where is Mr. Douqh, then?"

"He has moved into the staff quarters. One of the compartments is empty, and he has made himself comfortable." Plormot searched for his friend. Douqh waved his protestations aside.

"It is nothing. It is more convenient like this. You are going through to Iser, so it is better that you should stay in the section that goes through to Sioloc. Me, I am good here. It is most peaceful. My section is empty save for myself and one little Daquvah doctor. Ah, what a weather report! They say there has not been so much phal in this region of space for years. Let us hope we shall not be held up. I am not too happy about it, I can tell you."

At 9.15 the ship, punctual as ever, launched from the station, and shortly afterwards Plormot said goodnight to his friend and made his way through the different bulkheads and hallways to his own quarters.

On the second day of the journey, barriers between the passengers began breaking down. Lieutenant Keller was standing at the door of his quarters talking to Qozz. When Qozz saw Plormot he broke off something he was saying. He looked very much surprised.

"I thought you'd left us. You said you were getting off at Epuhled."

"A misunderstanding," Plormot smiled back. "I remember now, the ship took off from St' aldor before we could fully address it."

"But, you're luggage is gone."

"It has been moved into another room, that is all."

"Oh, I see!"

Qozz resumed his conversation with Keller, and Plormot passed on down the hall.

Two doors from his own compartment, the elderly risian woman, Mrs. Porxa Valy'r, was standing talking to the sheep-like lady, the denobulan. Mrs. Valy'r was pushing a data chip containing some periodical into the denobulan's hands.

"No, please take it," she said. "I've got plenty of other things to read. Brrr, isn't it cold?" She nodded to Plormot with friendliness.

"You're too kind," said the denobulan lady.

"Not at all. I hope you're able to sleep and that your head will feel better in the morning."

"It's only the cold. I am about to have a night cap."

"Do you have an analgesic? Are you sure? I've got lots. My daughter gave me spare hyposprays. Well, good night!" She turned to Plormot and seamlessly continued conversationally as the other woman took her leave. "Poor woman, she's a denobulan. As far as I can tell she's a kind of missionary. A healing one? Or religion, I suppose. Difficult to tell with so many species and systems and all that. A nice woman, but hasn't spoken Common in quite some time, apparently. She was so interested in what I told her about my daughter." Judging by how quickly the denobulan woman had retreated, Plormot doubted that very much.

By now, Plormot knew all about Mrs. Valy'r's daughter. Everyone on the vessel who could understand Common did. The denobulan woman was probably lucky for her poor skills in Common. How she and her husband were on the staff of a big Federation university in Zymran, and how this was Mrs. Valy'r's first journey to Orion space, and what she thought of the Qirmans and their slipshod ways and the condition of their space docks and how the Qirman people had no sense of the Risian expertise of hospitality.

The door next to them opened and the aging antaran personal aid stepped out. Inside, Plormot caught a glimpse of Mr. Evered sitting up in bed. He saw Plormot and his face changed, darkening with anger. Then the door was shut.

Mrs. Valy'r drew Plormot aside a little.

"You know, I'm unsettled by that man. Not the antaran servant, his boss. The human! There's something wrong about that man. My daughter always says I'm very intuitive. 'When Mama gets a feeling, she's dead right,' that's what my daughter says. And I've got a feeling about that man. He's next door to me and I don't like it. I engaged the locks against the communicating door between our rooms last night. I thought I heard him trying the handle – these Orion merchant ships don't have proper bulkheads between the rooms! They're normal, thin partitions you'd find surface-side on any primitive planet. Do you know, I wouldn't be surprised if that man turned out to be a killer – one of these mercenaries you hear about. I know I sound foolish, but there it is. I'm absolutely scared to death of that man! My daughter said I'd have an easy journey, but somehow I don't feel happy about it. It may be foolish, but I feel as if anything might happen – anything at all. And how that nice young fellow – the axanaran – can bear to be his secretary, I can't imagine."

Lieutenant Keller and Qozz were coming towards them down the hall.

"Come into my quarters," Qozz was saying. "Now, what I want to get right about your ideas on policy in Kaleshdu is this -"

The two men passed and went on down the corridor to Qozz's quarters.

Mrs. Valy'r said goodnight to Plormot. "I guess I'll go right to bed and read," she said. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Madam."

Plormot passed her door and came into his own room, which was the next one beyond Evered's. He undressed and got into bed, read for about half an hour and then turned out the light.

He awoke some hours later, jerking with a start. A loud groan, almost a yell, somewhere close at hand. At the same moment the ting of a bell sounded sharply.

Plormot sat up and switched on the light. He noticed that the ship was silent and still – presumably at a station.

That cry had startled him. He remembered that it was Evered who had the next compartment. He got out of bed and opened the door just as the ship's purser came hurrying along the hall and knocked on Evered's door. Plormot kept his door open a crack and watched. The conductor tapped a second time. A bell rang and a light showed over another door farther down. The purser glanced over his shoulder. At the same moment a voice from within the next compartment called out in Axanaran: "It's nothing. I was mistaken."

"Very good, sir." The purser scurried to knock at the door where the light was showing. Plormot returned to bed, his mind relieved, and switched off the light. He glanced at his watch. It was just twenty-three minutes to one.


	5. The Crime

He found it difficult to go to sleep again at once. For one thing, he missed the hum of the engines. If it was a station outside it was oddly quiet. By contrast, the noises on the ship seemed unusually loud. He could hear Evered moving about next door – a click as he pulled down the washbasin, the sound of the tap running, splashing noises, the click as the water was shut again. Footsteps passed up the hall outside, the shuffling footsteps of someone in night slippers.

Hilus Plormot lay awake staring at the ceiling. Why was the station outside so silent? His throat felt dry. He had forgotten to ask for his usual bottle of vadu. He looked at his watch again. Just after a quarter past one. He would ring for the conductor and ask for some vadu. His hand went out to the bell, but he paused when he heard a competing ting. The purser couldn't answer every bell at once.

_Ting … Ting … Ting …_

It sounded again and again. Where was the purser? Someone was getting impatient.

_Ti-i-i-i-ing!_

Whoever it was, was repeatedly pressing the bell's sounding button.

With a sudden rush, the purser's footsteps echoed up the aisle. He knocked at the door not far from Plormot's own. Then came the voices – the purser's, deferential, apologetic; and a woman's, insistent and unrelenting. Mrs. Valy'r. Plormot smiled to himself. That poor purser.

The confrontation – if it was one – went on for some time. Its proportions were almost entirely of Mrs. Valy'r's to a fractional contribution of responses by the purser. Finally the matter seemed to be closed. Plormot distinctly heard a "Have a good evening, Madam," and a door closed. Plormot took the opportunity to tug his own bell pull.

The purser arrived promptly. He looked hot and overworked.

"A bottle of vadu, please."

"Very good, sir." Perhaps a twinkle of amusement in Plormot's expression led him to unburden himself of his most recent stress. "The Risian woman -"

"Yes?"

He tugged at his collar. "Imagine the time I had with her! She insists – _insists_ \- that there is a man in her compartment! Figure to yourself, sir. In a space of this size." He drew out his hands to demonstrate the tight quarters. "Where would he conceal himself? I argue with her. I point out that it is impossible. She insists. She woke up, and there was a man there. And how, I ask, did he get out and leave the door bolted behind him? But she will not listen to reason. As though there were not enough to worry us already. This phal -"

"Phal?"

"Yes, sir. You have not noticed? The ship has stopped. We have run into a thick cluster of phal. A phaldrift, as they call it. It has adhered itself to everything. The the external heat sinks, the nacelles, the ports and even communication plating. It prevents the heat sinks and cooling systems to release heat, threatening multiple systems to overheat.

"The sensors engaged automatic shutdown procedures. Cosmos knows how long we shall be here, drifting. I remember once being phalled up for eight days. Don't be concerned, we have additional food rations and separate life support systems in place exactly for this purpose. Our only concern now is with the schedule."

"Where are we?"

"Between Nondinsi and Pordd."

"My, my," Plormot was vexed. So much rushing and hurrying to board this craft, all for this.

The purser withdrew and returned with the bottle of vadu.

"Good evening, sir."

Plormot drank a glass of the mineral rich water and readied himself for sleep. He was just dropping off when something again woke him. This time it was as though something heavy had fallen with a thud against the door.

He sprang up, opened it and looked out. Nothing. But to his right, some distance down the corridor, a woman wrapped in a scarlet cloak was retreating from him. At the other end, sitting on his little seat, the purser was entering up figures on his data pads. Everything was deathly quiet.

'I am clearly suffering from nerves,' Plormot told himself and retired to bed once more. This time he slept through till morning.

When he awoke the ship was still dead in the water. He raised a blind and looked out. A heavy coating of phal stuck to the vessel, with thick folds of it swirling past. The otherwise beautiful sight was difficult to see through the dusted window.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was past nine in the morning. At a quarter to ten, once he had meticulously readied his clothing and appearance, he made his way to the dining room, where a chorus of woe was ongoing.

Any social barriers there might have been between the passengers seemed to have thoroughly worn away. All were united by a common misfortune. Mrs. Valy'r was the loudest plaintiff.

"My daughter _said_ it would be the easiest way in the galaxy. Just sit in the craft until I got to Yenes. And now we may be here for days and days," she wailed. "And my connection launches the day after tomorrow. How am I going to catch it now? And through all this phal, I can't even send a subspace comm to cancel or re-book my ticket. I'm too angry to discuss it!"

The orion said that he had urgent business himself in Ualiw. The large human amiably agreed that it was "too bad," and soothingly expressed hope that the vessel would make up time once restarted.

"My sister – her children wait me," said the denobulan lady, struggling in broken Common. She started sniffing. "I get no word under them. What they think? They will say bad things have happened of me. We have pray for contact I make."

"How long will we be here?" Hannah Lee asked. "Doesn't anyone _know?_ " Her tone sounded superficially impatient, but Plormot noted that there were no signs of that unsteady anxiety which she had displayed while the Taurus Express had stalled.

Mrs. Valy'r was off again.

"There isn't anybody who knows a thing on this train. And nobody's trying to do a thing! Just a pack of useless aliens. If this were at home, in Risian space, there'd be someone at least trying to _do_ something!"

Keller turned to Plormot and spoke, with a few pauses, carefully in a Common dialect most spoken by Xoisk:

"You are a director of the charter, I think, sir. Might you tell us -" Plormot broke in, smiling.

"No, no," he said in the Federation standard form of Common. "It is not me. You confuse me with my friend, Douqh."

"Oh! I apologize." Indeed, there was genuine embarrassment with the man's confusion between the two Xoisk.

"Not at all. It is most natural. I am now in the compartment that he had before." It was unsurprising that the two Xoisk might be confused with one another. Douqh was not in the dining room. Plormot looked around and saw several others were also absent.

Princess Nehn was missing, and the andorian couple. Also, Evered, his steward, and the betazoid lady's maid.

The denobulan lady sniffed again.

"I am silly," she was saying in her laboriously broken Common. "I am poor to cry. All is for best, whatever happen." This spirit of faith, however, was not shared with the others.

"That's nice," Qozz said, though he was restless. "We may be here for days."

"What is this space anyway?" demanded Mrs. Valy'r tearfully. On being told it was Nivaluz, she said: "Oh! One of these Batrau regional things. What can you expect?"

"You are the only patient one, mademoiselle," said Plormot, turning to Miss Lee. She gave a slight shrug.

"What can one do?"

"You are a philosopher, mademoiselle."

"You're implying a deep attitude. I think my outlook is more pragmatic, really. I have learned to save myself useless emotion." She was speaking more to herself than to him, emulating a vulcan tone. She was not even looking at him. Her gaze went past him, out of the window to where thick curtains of phal billowed.

"You are of a strong character, mademoiselle," said Plormot gently. He decided it was most diplomatic to leave out how very Vulcan her demeanor seemed. Relations between humans and vulcans were strong, though they were known to trade somewhat insulting compliments from time to time. "You are, I think, the strongest character among us."

"Oh, no! No, I know one far stronger than I am."

"And that is …?" But she seemed suddenly to come to herself, to realize that she was talking to a stranger and an alien, with whom, until this morning, she had exchanged only a few sentences. She laughed a polite laugh, designed to create distance between them.

"Well, that old lady, for instance. You have probably noticed her. A somewhat ugly old woman but fascinating. She has only to lift a finger and ask for something in a polite voice – and the whole ship runs."

"It also runs for my friend Douqh," said Plormot. "But that is because he is a director of the line, not because he has a strong character." Miss Lee smiled. She did not smile at him as much as at something only she could see.

The morning wore away. Several people, Plormot among them, remained in the dining room. The communal life was felt, for the moment, to better pass the time. He heard a good deal more about Mrs. Valy'r's daughter, and he heard the lifelong habits of Mr. Valy'r, deceased, from his rising in the morning, his morning walks and hearty breakfast with an eye to the news all the way to his final snack at night in the hand-knitted sweater that Mrs. Valy'r herself had always made for him.

It was when he was listening to a grammatically, and contextually, confusing account of the medically charitable aims of the denubulan lady that one of the Orion Express crewmen came into the room and stood at his elbow.

"Excuse me, sir."

"Yes?"

"The compliments of Mr. Douqh, and he would be glad if you would be so kind as to come to him in a few minutes." Plormot rose, gave gracious excuses to the denobulan lady and followed the man out of the dining room. It was not the head purser but instead a lower-ranked crewman. He followed the crewman down the aisle of his own section and along the hall of the next section. The man tapped at a door, then stood aside to let Plormot enter.

It was a crewman's quarters, though not Douqh's own. It was presumably unassigned, leaving it free to be used as a meeting place. It certainly felt crowded. Douqh was sitting on the small seat in the far corner. In the other corner, looking out the window, was a small man looking out at the snow. Another big man stood just inside the doorway along with his own, original purser – what was his name – the aging arboreal, in Agate Inc. uniform. The arboreal purser, looking shell-shocked, nonetheless respectfully stepped out to give Plormot space in the cramped quarters.

"Ah!" cried Douqh. "My friend. Come in. We have need of your abilities." The small man by the window shifted in his seat and made room for Plormot to squeeze next to him to face Douqh. His friend's expression was worried and contorted into rapid thought.

"What has happened?" Plormot asked.

"Quite a question, indeed. First this phal – this stoppage. And now-" he stopped himself a moment. The purser gave a silent shudder.

"Now?" Plormot pressed.

"And now a passenger lies dead in his berth – stabbed." Douqh spoke in a low quavering voice of desperation.

"A passenger? Which passenger?"

"A Federate. A human called, called..." he consulted the purser's data pad. "Evered."

"Serious." Douqh echoed. "Certainly. To start, a murder – a calamity in and of itself. But beyond that, the circumstances are peculiar. Here we are, dead in the void. We may be here for hours, potentially days!" He amended the timeline after exchanging a look with the chief engineer. "And further, we normally pass through numerous territories with police of that locality aboard. Here in Nivaluz, no. You understand?" Jurisdiction was painful enough under normal circumstances. It was a position of great difficulty, and Plormot said so.

"There is more. Dr. Suric – I forgot to introduce you. Dr. Appak Suric, Mr. Hilus Plormot." The little daquvah man bowed. "Dr. Suric is of the opinion that death occurred at about 1 a.m."

"It is difficult to speak exactly in this case," the doctor added, "but I think, based on what human physiology I understand, that death occurred between midnight and two in the morning."

"When was this Mr. Evered last seen alive?" asked Plormot.

"He is known to have been alive at about twenty minutes to one, when he spoke to the purser," said Douqh.

"That is quite right," Plormot replied. "I myself heard what passed. That is the last thing known?"

"Yes." Plormot nodded and turned to the doctor, who continued.

"The escape pod to Mr. Evered's quarters was found to be engaged. The regular parameters had been overridden and resulted in partial decompression in the compartment. Consequently, temperatures equivalent to the void filled the compartment, and a small amount of phal adhered to the pod's exit attachment mechanisms. This leads one to suppose that the murderer escaped that way. But the escape pod is a blind." He nodded to the ship's chief engineer, the big man, who picked up where the doctor left off.

"As it happens, the escape pod was located about twenty minutes ago. It was caught in an eddy of phal and the current returned it here. We caught it with a grappling hook and found it was empty. No one left that way." As it happens, indeed.

The chances of the escape pod being brought directly back to the ship's immediate area were, literally, astronomical.

"Who else knows of the pod's recovery?" Plormot asked. Upon hearing it was only the very people in that room, he nodded, pleased. "We must keep this detail to ourselves." Assent all around.

"The crime – when was it discovered?" Plormot now shifted topics. A beat.

"Bael!"

The Orion Express purser stepped in when the chief engineer opened the door an summoned him.

Plormot peered out to the hallway at the purser, who still seemed in a daze. He was trembling.

"We should let the man sit. He may faint otherwise." The big man, the vessel's chief engineer and pilot, shifted aside and the purser sank down and planted his face into his hands. "This is serious!" Plormot had always been adept at observation, whether obvious or not.

"Bael," Douqh spoke more gently. "Tell this gentleman exactly what occurred."

The man spoke somewhat jerkily.

"The steward of this Mr. Evered, he tapped several times at the door this morning. There was no answer. Then, half an hour ago, the dining attendant came. He wanted to know if Mr. Evered planned to eat any breakfast. Or lunch, for that matter. It was eleven o'clock, you see.

"I opened the door for him with my key. But there was a chain, too, and it was fastened. There was no answer and it was very still in there, and cold – so cold. And the slight scent of something singed, similar to an air lock after exposure to the vacuum of space. And bits of phal stuck to the walls. I got the pilot. We broke the chain and went in. He was – Oh, it was awful!" He buried his face in his hands again.

"So the door was locked and chained on the inside," said Plormot thoughtfully. "It was not suicide – eh?"

The daquvah doctor gave a laugh. "Does a man who commits suicide stab himself ten – twelve – fifteen times?" he asked rhetorically.

Plormot's eyes widened. "That is great ferocity." He remarked.

"It is a woman," the ship's chief jumped in. "Depend on it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that."

Dr. Suric thought for a moment.

"She must have been a very strong woman," he said. "It is not my intention to overstep, but I can assure you that one or two of the blows were delivered with such force as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle. Human bone, at that. Human bones are made up of a matrix that includes collagen and a compound of calcium and phosphate, among other things. The combination of fibrous collagen and crystallized calcium gives them both rigidity and tensile strength. It's one of the most durable physiologies out there." He trailed off, realizing he'd started a tangent, one that only he was interested in. "Having said all that, it's not impervious to damage."

"It was clearly not a scientific crime," said Plormot, resetting the discussion.

"It was most unscientific," Dr. Suric confirmed. "The blows seem to have been delivered haphazardly and at random. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as though somebody had shut his eyes and then, in a frenzy, struck blindly again and again."

"It's a woman," said the chief again. "Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength." He nodded with such sage wisdom that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.

"I have, perhaps, something to contribute to your store of knowledge," Plormot continued. "Mr. Evered spoke to me yesterday. He told me, as far as I was able to understand him, that his life was in danger."

"'Taken out' as the human expression goes, I believe." Douqh commented. "Then it is not a woman. It is a 'gangster' or a 'gunman.'"

The chief looked slightly dejected at seeing his theory come to nothing.

"If so," said Plormot, "it seems to have been done very amateurishly." His tone expressed professional disapproval.

"There is a large Federate on the train," said Douqh, pursuing this idea. "A common-looking man with terrible clothes. An Orion man. He dresses from a region of space, however, which I believe is not done in good circles. You know whom I mean?" The Agate Inc. purser nodded.

"Yes, sir, the No. 16. But it cannot have been him. I would have seen him enter or leave the compartment."

"You might not have. But we will get into that in a moment. The question is, what to do?" He looked at Plormot.

Plormot looked back at him.

"My friend," said Douqh, using his most convincing tone. "You comprehend what I am about to ask of you. I know your powers. Take command of this investigation! No, please do not refuse. See, to us it is serious – I speak on behalf of Agate Incorporated. By the time the Nivaluz police arrive, how simple if we can present them with the solution! Otherwise there will be delays, annoyances, a million and more inconveniences. Perhaps who knows, serious annoyance to innocent people. Instead – you solve the mystery! We say, 'A murder has occurred – this is the criminal!'"

"And what if I do not solve it?"

"My dearest friend!" Douqh's voice reached new levels of flattery. "I know your reputation. I know something of your methods. This is the ideal case for you. To look up the antecedents of all these people, to verify their credentials, all that takes time and endless inconvenience. But have I not heard you say often that to solve a case a man has only to lie back in his chair and think? Do that. Interview the passengers on the train, view the body, examine what clues there are, and the – well, I have faith in you! I am assured that it is no idle boast of yours. Lie back and think – use the Xoisk repose you speak of so much – and you will know!"

He leaned forward, looking affectionately at one of his oldest friends.

"Your faith touches me, friend," said Plormot emotionally. It was fortunate there were no vulcans aboard to lend their disdain at such displays. As it was, Dr. Suric was looking between the two Xoisk men, wondering when they'd wind things down. "As you say, this cannot be a difficult case. I myself last night – but we will not speak of that now. In truth, this problem intrigues me. I was reflecting, not half an hour ago, that many hours of boredom lay ahead while we are stuck here. And now – a problem lies ready to be solved."

"You accept then?" Douqh replied eagerly.

"It is done. You place the matter in my hands."

"Good – we are all at your disposal."

"I should like a plan of that section of the vessel, with a note of the people who occupied the compartments, and I should also like to see their passports and their tickets."

"Bael will get you those."

The aging purser; looking even more exhausted now, left the compartment.

"What other passengers are there on the ship?" asked Plormot.

"In this section, Dr. Suric and I are the only occupants. The only other section with compartment quarters is beyond this one for the crewmen and staff. They should not concern us, since they are locked and sealed after dinner had been served to them last night. Forward of the section in question is only the dining room."

"Then it seems," said Plormot slowly, "as though we must look for our murderer in that very section." He turned to the doctor. "That is what you were hinting, I think?" The daquvah nodded. "At half an hour after midnight we ran into a thick drift of phal. No one can have left the ship since then."

Douqh said solemnly, "The murderer is with us – on the ship now..."


	6. A Woman

"First of all," said Plormot, "I should like a word or two with young Mr. Qozz. He may be able to give us valuable information."

"Certainly," said Douqh. He turned to the ship's chief and ordered for Mr. Qozz to be brought to them. The chief retreated. The purser returned with a bundle of passports and tickets. Mr. Douqh took them up.

"Thank you, Bael. It would be best, I think, if you were to return to your post. We will take your evidence formally later."

"Very good, sir." Bael turned and left, having seemingly gathered himself.

"After we have seen young Qozz," Plormot said, "perhaps the doctor will come with me to the dead man's quarters."

"Certainly."

At this moment the chief returned with Wroe'bex Qozz. Douqh rose.

"We are a little cramped in here," Douqh said pleasantly. "Take my seat, Mr. Qozz. Plormot will sit opposite you here." He turned to the chief. "Clear all the people out of the restaurant compartment," he directed, "and let it be left free for Plormot. You will conduct your interviews there, friend?"

"It would be the most convenient, yes," agreed Plormot.

Qozz had stood looking from one to the other, not following the rapid flow of Xoisk.

"What is it?" he began slowly, laboriously, in a dialect similar to Xoisk. "Why-?"

With a vigorous gesture Plormot motioned him to a seat, which he took before beginning again.

"Why-?" in Xoisk, then checking himself and relapsing into Common, "What's going on on the ship? Has anything happened?" He looked from one man to another. Plormot nodded.

"Exactly. Something has happened. Prepare yourself for a shock. Your employer, Mr. Evered, is dead!"

Qozz's mouth pursed itself into a tight frown. Aside from his eyes growing a shade brighter, he showed no signs of shock or distress.

"Huh. So they got him after all," he said.

"What exactly do you mean by that phrase, Mr. Qozz?" Qozz hesitated. "You are assuming," Plormot pressed, "that Mr. Evered was murdered?"

"Well, wasn't he?" This time Qozz did show surprise. "Uh, yes," he said slowly. "That's just what I did think." There was a pause. "Do you mean he just died in his sleep? He was old, but the man was as healthy as – as tough-" He stopped, at a loss for a simile. Recently, it had come into vogue to use a coined comparison to being as healthy as a human, given their hardy nature, but he wisely determined this to be an inappropriate turn of phrase. Given the circumstances.

"No, no," said Plormot. "Your assumption was correct. Mr. Evered was murdered. Stabbed. But I should like to know why you were so certain it was murder and not natural causes." Qozz hesitated.

"Hold on, before I get into it," he started. "Who exactly are you? And where do you come in?"

"I represent the Agate Incorporation." He paused before adding, "I am a detective. My name is Hilus Plormot."

If he expected an effect he did not get one. Qozz merely responded, "Oh, okay," and waited for him to go on.

"You have heard the name, perhaps."

"Well, it does sound like it could be familiar – only, I always thought it was a Denobulan outpost."

Hilus Plormot looked at him with distaste.

"Incredible!" he said.

"What's incredible?" Qozz's quizzical expression was so well-mannered, so unaware, as to be vexing to Plormot.

"Nothing." He sniffed, "Let us proceed. I want you to tell me, Mr. Qozz, all that you know about the dead man. You were not related to him?" Qozz cocked his head slightly, perhaps turning over in his mind what Plormot might have meant by related, given that the victim was human and Qozz was Axanaran, but Plormot was in no mood to correct his speech.

"No. I am – was, his secretary."

"For how long have you held that position?"

"A little over a year."

"Please give me all the information you can."

"Well, I met Mr. Evered just over a year ago when I was in Toghovia-"

Plormot interrupted.

"What were you doing there?"

The axanarian man explained he had come over from Rhul Zehm, a major station hub in Federate space, to look into a plasmic fuel concession, though Plormot did not want to hear all about that. His friends and Qozz had been led on rather badly over it. Mr. Evered was in the same hotel. He had just had a row with his secretary and offered the axanarian the job, which Qozz accepted. "I was at a loose end, you see, and glad to find a well-paid job ready made, as it were." The affable axanarian gave an endearing shrug to his shoulders.

"And since then?"

"We've traveled about. Mr. Evered wanted to see the galaxy. He was hampered by knowing no languages. I acted more as a courier than as a secretary. It was a pleasant life." Again, another shrug. Plormot requested the secretary to tell as much as he could about the employer, deceased. Again with the shrugging, this time with a perplexed expression.

"There isn't much for me to say."

"His full name?"

"Shaun Richard Evered."

"He was a Federate citizen? Of human space?"

"Yes."

"What part of human space did he come from?"

"I don't know." Plormot internally grimaced.

"Well, tell me what you do know."

"The actual truth is, Mr. Plormot, that I don't really know anything at all! Mr. Evered never spoke of himself, or of his life in the human territories."

"Why do you think that was?"

"I don't know. I imagined that he might have been ashamed of his beginnings. Some men are." Indeed, humans were not alone in spreading out into the galaxy at large to run from some painful chapter in their past.

"Does that strike you as a satisfactory explanation?"

"Well, frankly no, it doesn't."

"Has he any relations?" But Qozz shook his head in resignation.

"He never mentioned any."

"You must have formed some theory, Mr. Qozz."

"Well, yes, I did. For one thing, I don't believe Evered was his real name. I think he left Federate space in order to escape someone or something. I think he was successful – until a few weeks ago."

"And then?"

"He began to get subspace communications – threatening letters."

"Did you see them?"

"Yes. It was my business to attend to his correspondence. The first letter came two weeks ago."

"Were these letters destroyed?"

"No, I think I've still got a couple in my files – there was one that I know Mr. Evered deleted in a rage. Shall I get them for you?" Qozz left the compartment. He returned a few minutes later and laid down a data pad, set to display two letters. They were wiped of their metadata, and what fragments remained were scrambled, showing the pains taken to remain anonymous.

The first letter ran as follows:

"You thought you'd doublecross us and get away with it, didn't you? Think again. We're out to get you, Evered, and we will get you!"

Predictably, there was no signature.

With no comment beyond raised eyebrows, Plormot swiped to view the second letter.

"We're going to take you for a ride, Evered. Some time soon. We're going to get you. We haven't let this go."

Plormot laid the pad down.

"The style is monotonous." he said. "More so than the typefont."

Qozz stared at him.

"You would not notice," said Plormot pleasantly. "It requires the eye of one used to such things. This letter was not written by one person, Mr. Qozz. Two or more persons wrote it – each designing a separate section of the letter that was then overlaid with the others, creating a composite of fragmented messages, knitted together. Also, the comms were encrypted. That makes the task of identifying the source much more difficult." He paused. In truth, given the thorough scrambling and erasure of the metadata behind the letters, tracing them, or determining when they'd been written would likely prove impossible. Then, Plormot continued. "Did you know that Mr. Qozz had applied for help from me?"

"To you?" Qozz's astonished tone told Plormot quite certainly that the young man had not known of it. He nodded.

"Yes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he act when he received the first letter?"

Qozz hesitated. "It's difficult to say. He – He – passed it off with a laugh in that quiet way of his. But somehow," he gave a slight shiver, "I felt that there was a good deal going on underneath the quietness." Plormot nodded. Then he asked an unexpected question.

"Mr. Qozz, will you tell me, honestly, exactly how you regarded your employer? Did you like him?" Wroe'bex Qozz took a moment or two before replying.

"No," he said at last. "I did not."

"Why?"

"Well … He was always quite pleasant in his manner." He paused, then said, "I'll tell you the truth, Mr. Plormot. I disliked and distrusted him. He was, I feel, a cruel and a dangerous man. I must also admit, though, that I have no specific reason or example to cite for my opinion."

"Thank you, Mr. Qozz. One further question – when did you last see Mr. Evered alive?"

"Last evening about," he thought for a minute, "ten o'clock, I should say. I went into his compartment to take down some notes from him, for later translation."

"On what subject?"

"Some textiles and antique furniture that he bought in Toghovia. What was delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long exchange of messages on the subject."

"And that was the last time Mr. Evered was seen alive?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Do you know when Mr. Evered received the last threatening letter?"

"On the morning of the day we left Cophrates."

"There is one more question I must ask you, Mr. Qozz: were you on good terms with your employer?" The young man's eyes twinkled suddenly.

"This is where I'm supposed to go all clammy, I imagine. In the words of a Federation gangster novel, 'You've got nothing on me.' Evered and I were on perfectly good terms."

"Perhaps, Mr. Qozz, you will give me your full name and your Federate address."

Qozz gave his name – Wroe'bex Qozz, and an address in Rhul Zehm, that metropolitan station roaming Federate space.

"That is all for the present, Mr. Qozz," he said. "I should be obliged if you would keep the matter of Mr. Evered's death to yourself for a little while."

"His steward, Zahn, will have to know."

"He probably knows already," said Plormot dryly. "If so, try to get him to hold his tongue."

"That shouldn't be too difficult. He's antaran, and focuses on his work. He has a low opinion of most humans and probably has no opinion of any other species or region." Plormot had yet to meet a antaran to express a high opinion of any other species. Whether that was due to their communication quirks or to Mr. Qozz possessing a unique interpretation of the steward, Plormot did not know.

"Thank you, Mr. Qozz." The Federate left the compartment.

"Well?" demanded Douqh. "You believe what he says, this young axanar man?"

"He seems honest and straightforward. He did not pretend to any affection for his employer as he probably would have done had he been involved in any way. It is true Mr. Evered did not tell him that he had tried to enlist my services and failed, but I do not think that is really a suspicious circumstance. I fancy Mr. Evered was a gentleman who kept his own counsel on every possible occasion."

"So you pronounce one person at least innocent of the crime," said Douqh jovially.

Plormot cast his friend a look of reproach.

"Me, I suspect everybody until the last minute," he responded. "All the same, I must admit that I cannot see this young, mild-tempered Qozz losing his head and stabbing his victim twelve or fourteen times. It is not in accord with his personality – not at all."

"No," said Douqh thoughtfully. "That is the act of a man driven almost crazy with a frenzied hate – it suggests more the human, or Klingon temperament. Or else it suggests, as our friend the chief engineer insisted, a woman."


	7. The Body

Followed by the daquvah, Dr. Suric, Plormot made his way to the next ship section and the compartment occupied by the murdered human. The conductor came and unlocked the door for them with his passkey.

The two men passed inside. Plormot turned inquiringly to his companion.

"How much has been disarranged in this compartment?"

"Nothing but the body has been touched. I was careful not to move the body in making my examination."

Plormot nodded. He looked around him.

The first thing that struck the senses was the intense cold. The heat had been sucked from the compartment when it vented, and climate controls had yet to be fully reactivated and reset. The burnt smell lingering on the bulkheads typified the process of venting to the black. Plormot shivered, and the daquvah, another species preferring warmer conditions, conferred with appreciation. Plormot examined the escape hatch.

"Yes," he announced. "Nobody left the compartment this way. The mechanism to fully seal the compartment after the escape pod is within the pod itself and can only be activated by a pod user. Anyone launching a pod manually forfeits the ability to prevent venting the room. Yet, the room has been vented." But, he pondered to himself, was it solely because no one left that way, or also to tamper with evidence in the room?

"Possibly the escape pod was to suggest escape of the perpetrator, but if so, the phal has defeated the murderer's plans." He examined the room's control panel for the escape pod. Taking a personalized tricorder from his pocket, he fiddled with a dial and frowned.

"No prints. This panel has been wiped. Well, if there had been any, it would have told us very little. They would have been those of the victim, of his staff or of the Orion Express's crew. Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays." He brightened. "That being so, we might as well reset the environmental controls to heat the compartment. It is quite cold in here!" Adjusting the room's controls, he turned to the figure lying in the bunk.

Evered lay on his back. His pajama shirt, stained in rusty patches, had been unbuttoned and spread open for examination. Dr. Suric looked apologetic for having altered the evidence, but Plormot nodded in understanding. He bent over the body. Finally, he straightened himself, grimacing.

"It is not pretty," he noted, "someone must have stood there and stabbed him again and again. How many wounds are there exactly?"

"I counted twelve. One or two are so inconsequential as to be practically scratches. On the other hand, at least three would have caused near-immediate death, and one or two look to be almost as efficient." Something in the doctor's tone caught Plormot's attention. He looked over at the daquvah sharply. The man was standing, staring down at the body with a puzzled expression.

"What is it?"

The doctor pointed to two of the wounds. "Here and here, they are deep. Each cut must have severed blood vessels, I see a couple in there. Yet, the edges do not gape. They have not bled as one would have expected."

"Which suggests?"

"That the man was already dead – not for long, mind you – when they were made. But that would indicate a prolonged attack, and surely twelve repetitions do not take that long? It seems absurd."

"It would seem," Plormot pondered, "unless our murderer thought to himself that he had not accomplished his job completely and came back to make quite sure; but that is, as you say, quite absurd. Anything else?"

"Well, you see this wound here? Under the right arm, near the right shoulder. Pretend you hold a knife in your hand. Could you deliver such a blow?" Plormot agreeably attempted to mime a reenactment.

"I see," he said. "I see. With the right hand it is quite difficult – very awkward. One would have to strike backhanded, as it were. But of the blow were struck with the left hand ..."

"Exactly, Plormot. That blow was almost certainly struck with the left hand, while most others were almost positively made with the right. A couple are straight down and could be either."

"So our murderer is either ambidextrous, a rarity across sentient species, and wielding dual blades, or they switched hands at some point to continue their frenzy. Or..."

"Two people," Dr. Suric completed Plormot's sentence.

"We have here a hypothesis of the first and second murderer. The first murderer stabbed his victim and left the compartment. The lights were off, so the second murderer came in the dark, did not see that his or her work had been done and stabbed at least twice at a dead body. What do you think of that?"

"Magnificent," the doctor was enthusiastic. Plormot's eyes twinkled in response.

"You think so? I'm glad, for it sounded to me like nonsense."

"What other explanation can there be?"

"That is just what I am asking myself. Have we here a coincidence? Are there any other inconsistencies that support there being two murderers?"

"I believe so, yes. Some of these blows," Dr. Suric began gesturing to the different cuts. "They point to a weakness, a lack of strength or perhaps a lack of determination. They are feeble glancing blows. But these ones here, and this one," he gestured again, "these required great strength for these. They have penetrated the muscle." He did not need to emphasize that the muscle in question was human, a tough, durable substance of elastic quality.

"They were, in your opinion, delivered by a man?"

"Most certainly a man."

"Could they have possibly been delivered by a woman?"

"Yes, if she were a young, vigorous, athletic woman. A vulcan, andorian or human woman, certainly. Perhaps a denobulan or axanar woman, especially if she were in the grip of a strong emotion, but it is in my opinion highly unlikely." Well, there were no vulcans on board the Orion express, and the denobulan woman passenger was so meek, the antaran woman so elderly, as to be laughable for such a show of savagery. Plormot was silent for a moment or two.

"The matter, it is funny," he said. "The murderer was a man of great strength, he was feeble, it was a woman, it was a right-handed person, it was a left-handed person – ah! It's quite funny." His tone of humor shifted into one of sudden anger. "And the victim – what does he do in all this? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?"

He slipped his hand under the pillow and withdrew a phase pistol which Evered had shown him the day before.

"Fully charged, you see," he noted.

They looked around them. Evered's clothing was still on its hooks on the wall, held in place from venting by the netting that strapped them to the wall. Next to the escape pod's hatch on the floor, held in by the ship's internal venting dampeners, were various objects, having been saved from the void. False teeth, a cup for water, now empty, a partially emptied bottle of mineral water, a large flask, a data pad crushed beyond use. Two other items took Plormot's attention in particular. A small data chip, its port faces scratched and pockmarked, perhaps deliberately. The potential culprit for the chip's damage lay next to it: a small, handheld multipurpose tool. A drill bit protruded from it's active tool port.

Dr. Suric leaned over the body again, this time peering closely at Evered's neck. "Here is the explanation of the victim's languidness."

"Drugged?"

"Yes. A mass-produced paralytic placed as a bandage, though the adjoining anesthetic patch was ripped off."

Plormot nodded. Premeditation, indeed. He examined the data chip. He stooped to ensure he had not missed any other clues or objects in the compartment. None

"The chief engineer. Perhaps he was right, that this was a woman. Perhaps he is wrong. Either way, the only pieces of evidence at our disposal are generic. A multipurpose tool. A paralytic patch, which can point to the culprit being a woman. But when using a drug to commit the crime, why turn and use such a visceral method of stabbing to finish the job? That points to a man, except a man, unless he is weaker or feebler than the victim, wouldn't be so likely to rely on a paralytic patch. This victim, he is a geriatric man. This data chip seems to be our only hope, depending on what it contains. "

"I see," Dr. Suric said, although it was doubtful he was following that closely.

"There is no abundance of clues, you see. Mr. Douqh may be right, that I am the best chance of solving this case, given the lack of evidence." Plormot drew himself up sagely. "It will not be a direct evidence trail that solves this mystery. Instead, it will be the psychology."

The doctor was nodding blankly. Wanting to contribute, he said, "There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it with him."

"Why, I wonder." Plormot mused. But the doctor had been patting the dead man's pajama pockets and had pulled out a discovered object. A gold watch. Human analogue time pieces were quite rare, and the materials and quality were impressive. The case was dented, the face smashed and the hands pointed to a quarter past one.

"You see this, look at what I have discovered!" Dr. Suric cried excitedly. "This gives us the hour of the crime. It agrees with my calculations for the time of death, between midnight and two in the morning, and likely around one, though it is difficult to be exact in these matters. And here is confirmation. A quarter past one. That was the hour of the crime."

"It is possible, yes. Certainly possible." The doctor threw a curious look to Plormot.

"Pardon me, Mr. Plormot, but I do not quite understand you."

"I don't understand myself," said Plormot. "I understand nothing at all, and as you perceive, it worries me." He sighed and bent over the scratched data chip. He murmured to himself.

"What I need right now is a working data pad with high processing power." Opening the door, he called for the purser.

"Are there any D-Class pads that the ship can spare?" The head conductor stared at him blankly for a moment before answering.

"No. If I understand what you are asking, we do not have any Orion Express equipment capable of what you seek. Under different circumstances, you might use the ship's native computer to run processing, but given all the phal on our heat sinks, we're operating under caution against overheating."

"But there are passengers among us who work as researchers, yes? The Denobulan doctor, she must process medical data on occasion, yes? The Andorian Ambassador must have processing power at his disposal, yes?" Bael Kehrno, likely thinking this question to be beyond his purview as a purser, took a moment to respond.

"Count Kyrth, and indeed Countess Kyrth, they have diplomatic immunity, and it is doubtful whether official Andorian technology in service under such immunity would be permitted for your use. As for the denobulan, I believe she no longer practices as a doctor. But, I will go ask if anyone possesses such equipment, and I'll bring it." The aging purser started to retreat to do Plormot's bidding. Plormot stopped him before he left.

"Aside from the Andorian count, tell everyone it is a matter of customs regulation – something – anything that occurs to you. Be quick."

The purser departed. He returned with two pads, one from the academic Hannah Lee and the other from Mrs. Porxa Valy'r, who ran an academy. He booted both. As it turned out, Mrs. Valy'r's pad, while expensive, did not have the processing power required for his goal. Rather, upon some additional snooping on his part, he found that it had not even seen much service over the past few weeks or so. It lacked the specifications he needed, besides, and he turned it off. Miss Lee's, on the other hand, was the polar opposite.

Plormot was no computer scientist, but even he could spot a meticulous hand when he saw one. Upon booting, Plormot was prompted to select his preferred operating system. One was the pad's native Federation OS. A second was an operating system called Tails, likely deriving from Earth space. A third OS seemed to be custom-made. Out of interest, he selected the custom OS, only to have it refuse to open and prompt him to insert a drive he did not possess. A vain attempt to insert the damaged data chip produced no response. It seemed to be only a part of an operating system, and was useless without the specified external drive. It obediently responded when Plormot selected the Federation OS and tapped in the security code that Miss Lee had obligingly written down for him. Randomized alphanumerics.

It had the most recent system updates and patches. It contained no files or applications beyond those preinstalled. He perused the system information page and suspected that, even if he did have Miss Lee's drives, they would be encrypted with equal thoroughness. Again, Plormot's estimations of the woman adjusted.

"Ah," Plormot fiddled with the data chip. "I do not know much of computers or their forensics, but my many investigations have taught me some things." He could not help to puff his chest at his experience. The chip, to his surprise, was not encrypted, though the data was damaged and did not yield much. He navigated to a chosen program and readied it to run. He ensured the Risian woman's padd was shut off and told the purser to return it. When the purser had left he turned to the doctor.

"You see, dear doctor, I am not one to rely on the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the encryption key. But in this case I would welcome a little scientific assistance. This compartment holds few clues, but would I have been able to be certain that any clues were really what they seem?" The doctor's blank stare looked back at him.

"Well, to put it simply, the lack of other clues means there is less distraction. Say we find a woman's handkerchief. Did a woman drop it? Or did a man, wanting to cast the blame on a woman? Here, we have the victim's corpse, the victim's broken watch, a multipurpose tool who's role in damaging this data chip is clear, and a data chip. We might, I think, ignore the tool, since it's purpose is obvious. It casts the chip as the item of interest."

"I see," Dr. Suric dragged out the word, denoting his lack of seeing.

"Ah, I will explain further." Plormot loved to explain things. "These clues, the watch stopped at a quarter past one, it may be genuine, or it may be fake. Perhaps it was truly stopped during the crime. If so, was Mr. Evered fastidious in updating it's setting to the time of the vessel's clock? Or did he prefer to reset it after arrival, and leave it set to his prior time zone? We have passed through time zones that do not equate to a twelve or twenty-four hour system, as his watch is. Luckily, the Orion Express's systems to equate, given that our final destination is Federate space. But we do not know whether Evered kept it up to date. Some humans, they keep it set to the time of her home planet out of sentiment. I do not see Evered as that type, but regardless, I doubt whether this time piece will be either a help or a hindrance. It seems to me to be a distraction."

Dr. Suric had started out nodding along to Plormot's pedantic spiel. He had clearly been lost along the way, but still nodded along out of habit.

"But," Plormot continued, "There is one clue here which I believe – though again I may be wrong – has certainly not been faked. I mean this broken pad, Mr. Suric. I believe that this pad was used by the murderer, not by Mr. Evered – he has a secretary to perform most functions? It was used to try to delete an incriminating chip of some kind. And then, the handheld drill was used to further destroy the hardware. If so, there was something on this chip, some mistake, some error, that left a possible clue to the assailant. I am going to attempt to uncover what that something was."

He turned to unbroken pad and fiddled with it for a moment, having carefully inserted the chip. The doctor watched him with great interest.

"I am an amateur at computer forensics, you see," Plormot noted. "Let us hope that we find an answer."

"Surely Miss Lee could be of assistance? She seems to have set up this pad to her specifications." But Plormot shook his head at the doctor's suggestion.

"But no! It would be improper to ask her for assistance."

The pad whirred as it ran its program, sifting though fragments of data on the damaged chip. The screen darkened to indicate its processing status, then brightened to show some preliminary findings. The words were in human English – quite expected, considering it was found in Evered's compartment, but Plormot had selected findings to be translated into Xoisk. It was quite convenient that Miss Lee had added that language to the pad's suite. Only two complete words and two incomplete words showed.

"-ember little Daisy Arch-"

"Ah!" Plormot gave a sharp exclamation.

"What?" The doctor.

Plormot's eyes were bright. He laid down the pad carefully. The program had run its course and those few words were the only results. Unsurprising, given the pad's wiping process followed by physical destruction to the hardware.

"Yes," Plormot mused. "I know the dead man's real name. I know why he had to leave Federation space."

"What was his name?"

"Parisi."

"Parisi." Suric frowned. "It reminds me of something. Some years ago. I cannot remember … it was a news story in Federation space, was it not?" The doctor was right, although that much may have been surmised by the victim's species, at any rate.

"Yes," said Plormot. "A case in Starfleet." Further than that, Plormot was not disposed to convey. He looked around him and continued: "We will go into all of that presently. Let us first make sure that we have seen all there is to be seen here." He quickly and deftly went through the pockets of the dead man's clothes and through folds in his belongings but found nothing there of interest. He tried the communicating door which led through to the next compartment, but it was bolted on the other side.

"There's something I do not understand," said Dr. Suric. "If the murderer did not escape through the escape pod, and if this communicating door was bolted on the other side, and if the door into the corridor was not only locked on the inside but bolted, how then did the murderer leave the compartment?"

"That is what the children say when a phycisist places an object into a box and delivers a lecture to explain – that the object no longer exists." Schrodinger's cat was the term often used by Parisi's fellow humans when discussing the existence of an object – a cat – in a container with no external evidence to prove the cat within.

"You mean..."

"I mean," explained Plormot, for he loved explaining things, "that if the murderer intended us to believe that he had escaped by way of the escape pod he would naturally make it appear that the other two exits were impossible. Like Schrodinger's cat in the box – it is a matter of perspective. It is my business to find out who and how this case has been framed. It is my intent to open the box and have reality collapse back into it so we may see the truth of it."

He locked the communicating door on their side.

"In case," he explained, "the excellent Mrs. Valy'r should take it into her head to acquire first-hand details of the crime to write to her daughter." He looked around around once more.

"There is nothing more to do here, I think. Let us rejoin Mr. Douqh."


	8. The Archer Kidnapping Case

They found Douqh finishing a course of his lunch.

"I thought it best to have lunch served immediately in the restaurant car," he said. "Afterwards it will be cleared and Mr. Plormot can conduct his interviews of the passengers there. In the meantime I have ordered them to bring us three some food here." It was an idea typical of a man charged with the running of a transportation company, and the others agreed with his logistical mind.

Neither of the two investigating men were hungry, and the meal was soon eaten, but it was not until they were sipping their teas did Douqh mention the subject that was occupying all their minds.

"So?" he asked.

"So, I have discovered the true identity of the victim. I know why it was necessary for him to leave Federation space."

"Who was he?"

"Do you remember reading of the Archer child? This was the man who murdered little Daisy Archer – Parisi."

"I recall it! A shocking affair – though I cannot remember the details."

"The father, Archer, was in Starfleet – A captain. He was Starfleet 'royalty' as the humans moniker it, as his father was a famed human warp engineer, Henry Archer, and his wife was an heiress and an accomplished captain, herself. They had one child – a girl – whom they idolized. When she was five years old she was abducted, and an exorbitantly high sum demanded for her return. It is important to note now that, during the abduction, Archer's former medical officer, a denobulan, was killed, and the doctor's wife injured. I won't weary you with all the many intricacies that followed, but Starfleet, Denobula, the young Federation and human territories of space were frantic to catch the culprit.

"When, after having paid over the enormous sum of over six hundred million credits, the child's dead body was discovered. She had been dead at least a fortnight. Public and Starfleet indignation rose to a fever point. And there was worse to follow. Mrs. Archer – no, she kept her name, I believe – Captain Hernandez, was expecting another child. Following both injuries from the Romulan War and the shock of the discovery, she gave birth to a dead child born prematurely, and herself died."

"Such a tragedy. I remember now," said Douqh. "There was also yet more death, if I remember right?"

"Yes. Some of Captain Archer's former officers, loyal comrades from the wars, went on a mission to catch Parisi. There was official search by the Federation, a test of the new system of cooperation. Parisi had escaped Earth – the human home planet – so Earth was not content to wait. Separately, Archer's comrades tracked Parisi down. Here, details are shrouded behind walls of classification, but this much is known: His former sub-commander, a vulcan, and one of Starfleet's forefront engineers, died in the mission. But it was successful in bringing Parisi into custody."

There were murmurs of sadness from Douqh and Dr. Suric.

"Such a high cost of life." Dr. Suric commented.

"Yes – but that was not all." Plormot lamented. For once, he did not put on airs of drama. "An unfortunate Primate, or maybe Arboreal, Xindi au pair, who watched Daisy. The police were convinced that she had some knowledge of the crime. They refused to believe her denials. Perhaps they were swayed by xenophobia so soon after the Xindi War. Finally, in a fit of despair, the poor girl threw herself from an air lock and was killed. It was proved afterwards that she was absolutely innocent of any complicity in the crime."

The three men rested in a quiet moment.

"When Parisi was captured," Plormot continued, "he was charged as the head of the operation who had kidnapped the child. They had used the same methods in the past. If the police seemed likely to get on their trail, they would kill their prisoner, hide the body, and continue to extract as much money as possible before the crime was discovered.

"Now, I will make clear to you this, my friends. Parisi was the man! But he had accumulated enormous wealth from his exploits. He had also accrued shadowy holds over variously placed people. Through his ill-gotten wealth and shady corruption, he was acquitted and ruled innocent in a backroom deal done during the night. All within weeks of his initial arrest.

"Certainly, he would have been accosted by other branches of the Federation and Starfleet itself and likely received the full brunt of public anger. He would have been charged with the murders of the denobulan doctor, the vulcan subcommander and Earth engineer while the acquittal was investigated, but he had been clever enough to leave the system immediately after his acquittal.

"It has always been clear what happened. He changed his name and left Federation space. Today, however, we know that since then he has been a gentleman of leisure, not hiding, but traveling around and living on his acquired wealth."

"What a monster!" Douqh's tone was saturated with heartfelt disgust. "Six people – six! All dead because of him, and that is not to speak of his deeds before taking the Archer child. I cannot regret that he is dead – not at all."

"Seven." Plormot corrected. "Captain Archer took his own life once it was clear Parisi had escaped justice and was left without Daisy, his wife and unborn child and three of his friends. Eight, if you count the au pair."

A couple of minutes passed by in silence.

"I agree with you, Parisi was a monster." Plormot finally broke the silence.

"All the same, it is not necessary that he should be killed on the Orion Express. There are other places." Plormot smiled at Douqh's complaint; Douqh was biased in the matter, after all.

"The question we now face is whether this murder is the work of some rival adversary whom Parisi had double-crossed in the past, or an act of private vengeance?" Plormot then explained his discovery of the few recovered words on the damaged chip.

"If I am right in my assumption, then the message was destroyed by the murderer. Why? Because it mentioned the word 'Archer,' which is the clue to the mystery."

"Are there any members of the Archer family living?"

"That, unfortunately, I do not know. What with this phal, I cannot look it up. I think I remember reading that both Captains Archer and Hernandez were only children." Plormot outlined the joint conclusions of himself and Dr. Suric. Douqh brightened at the mention of the broken watch.

"That seems to give us the time of the crime very exactly."

"Yes," Plormot murmured, "It is very convenient."

There was an indescribable something in his tone that made both the other two look at him curiously.

"You yourself say you heard Evered speak to the purser at twenty minutes to one? Excuse me. Well, that proves at least that Parisi – or Evered, as I shall continue to call him – was certainly alive at twenty three minutes to one.

"Which means then, at twelve thirty-seven, to put it formally, Mr. Evered was alive. That is one fact, at least." Plormot did not reply to Douqh's statements. He sat looking thoughtful.

There was a tap on the door, and the restaurant attendant entered.

"The restaurant is free now, sir," he said.


	9. The Evidence of the Purser

The dining room was orderly and set. Plormot and Douqh sat together on one side of a table. The daquvah doctor saw across the aisle.

Plormot organized what few notes he had thus far. On the table in front of him was a plan of the vessel's passenger quarters with the names of the passengers marked down. The passcards and tickets were in a pile at one side. He lined up his data pad for additional notes and straightened the stylus that lay next to it.

"Excellent," Plormot said. "We can open our inquiry. First, I think, we should take the account of the Agate purser. As his employer, you probably know something about the man. What sort of person is he? Is he a man in whose words and deeds you would trust?"

"I would say so, most assuredly. Bael Kehrno has been employed by the company for over nine years. He is a Xindi—lives near Sioloc. Thoroughly respectable and honest. I would definitely say he's not the conniving or cunning type."

Plormot nodded along and made a couple of notes.

"Good," he said. "Let us see him."

Bael Kehrno had recovered some of his assurance, but he was still somewhat nervous.

"I hope, sir, you will not think that there has been any negligence on my part," he said anxiously, his eyes going from Plormot to Douqh. "It is a terrible thing that has happened. I hope you do not think that it reflects on me in any way?" Plormot launched into a calming speech of assurance.

Having eased the man's fears, Plormot began his questions. He first elicited Bael's name and address, his length of service, and the length of time he had been on this particular route. Bael had been with Agate Inc. for about nine years, but on the Orion Express for less than three. These particulars he already knew, but the routine questions served to further put the man into a calmer state.

"And now," went on Plormot, "let us come to the events of last night. Mr. Evered retired to bed, when?"

"Almost immediately after dinner, sir. Actually before we left Epuhled. So he did on the previous night. He had directed me to make up the bed while he was at dinner, and I did so."

"Did anybody go into his compartment afterwards?"

"His steward, sir, and the young Axanar gentleman, his secretary."

"Anyone else?"

"No, sir, not that I know."

"Good. And that is the last you saw or heard of him?"

"No, sir. He rang his bell about twenty to one—soon after we had stopped."

"What happened exactly?"

"Well, I knocked at the door, but he said he had made a mistake."

"In what language?"

"In Axanarian."

"What were his words exactly?"

"I don't speak Axanarian, but working aboard the Orion Express, I am able to only understand some basic phrases and words in some languages."

"That's alright. Please, if you can remember his words."

~It's nothing. I was mistaken.~ Plormot nodded at the purser's careful Axanar pronunciation.

"Quite right," said Plormot. "That is what I heard. And then you went away?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you go back to your seat?"

"No, sir, I went to answer another bell that had rung."

"Now, Bael, I am going to ask you an important question. Where were you at a quarter past one?"

"Me, sir? I was at my little seat at the end—facing up the hallway, the corridor."

"You are sure?"

"Quite sure—at least—" He hesitated.

"Yes?"

"I went into the quarters in the next section, the staff quarters, to speak to my colleague there. We spoke about the phal. That was at some time soon after one in the morning. I cannot say exactly."

"And you returned—when?"

"One of my bells rang, sir—I remember—I told you. It was the risian lady. She had rung several times."

"I remember," said Plormot. "And after that?"

"After that, sir? I answered your bell and brought you some mineral water. Then, about half an hour later, I made up the bed in one of the other compartments, the young axanar gentleman, Mr. Evered's secretary."

"Was Mr. Qozz alone in his compartment when you went to make up his bed?"

"The Federation lieutenant from No. 15 was with him. They had been sitting, talking."

"What did the lieutenant do when he left Mr. Qozz?"

"He went back to his own compartment."

"No. 15—that is quite close to your seat in the passage, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, it is the second compartment from that end of the corridor."

"His bed was already made up?"

"Yes, sir. I had made it up while he was at dinner."

"What time was all this?"

"I could not say exactly, sir. Not later than two o'clock, certainly."

"And after that?"

"After that, sir, I sat in my seat till morning."

"You did not go again into the staff quarters?"

"No, sir."

"Perhaps you slept?"

"I don't think so, sir. The ship being at a standstill prevented me from dozing off as I usually do. I've grown used to the engines, whether at warp or sublight, while I sleep."

"Did you see any of the passengers moving up or down the corridor?"

The man reflected.

"One of the ladies went to the toilet at the far end, I think."

"Which lady?"

"I do not know, sir. It was far down the corridor, and she had her back to me. She had on a red robe with gold trim on it."

Plormot nodded.

"And after that?"

"Nothing, sir, until the morning."

"You are sure?"

"Ah, pardon. You yourself, sir, opened your door and looked out for a second."

"Good, my friend," said Plormot. "I wondered whether you would remember that. By the way, I was awakened by what sounded like something heavy falling against my door. Have you any idea what that could have been?"

The man stared at him. Though his face was furred, Plormot was certain it was just as blank underneath the fur as it appeared from his seat.

"There was nothing, sir. Nothing, I am positive of it."

"Then I must have had a dream," said Plormot philosophically.

"Unless," said Douqh, "it was something in the compartment next door that you heard."

Plormot seemed to take no notice of the suggestion. It was possible he did not wish to acknowledge it in front of the Orion Express's purser.

"Let us pass to another point," he said. "Supposing that last night an assassin joined the vessel. It is quite certain that he could not have left it after committing the crime?"

Bael Kehrno shook his head.

"Nor that he can be concealed on it somewhere?"

"It has been well searched, and our ship systems, though on reduced functions due to phal, still account for lifeforms aboard," said Douqh. "Abandon that idea, my friend."

"Besides," said Bael, "no one could get into that section of the ship without my seeing them."

"When was the last stop?"

"Nondinsi."

"What time was that?"

"We should have left there at 11:58. But owing to the system's phal we were twenty minutes late."

"Someone might have come along from the cargo hold of the ship?"

"No, sir. After the service of dinner the door between the service quarters and the sleeping quarters is locked. There are no passages through without my seeing."

"Did you yourself descend from the ship at Nondinsi?"

"Yes, sir. I got down on to the platform as usual and stood by the step up into the ship."

Plormot tapped thoughtfully on the table for a minute or two.

"Sir, you not blame me?" said the man timidly. Plormot smiled at him.

"You have had a terrible night, my friend," he said. "One other point while I remember it. You said that another bell rang just as you were knocking at Mr. Evered's door. In fact, I heard it myself. Whose was it?"

"It was the bell of Princesse Nehn. She requested that I summon her maid, the betazoid."

"And you did so?"

"Yes, sir."

Plormot studied the plan in front of him thoughtfully. Then he inclined his head.

"That is all at the moment."

"Thank you, sir."

The man rose and looked at Mr. Douqh.

"Do not distress yourself," said the Xoisk kindly. "I cannot see that there has been any negligence on your part."

Somewhat calmed, Bael Kehrno left the compartment.


	10. The Evidence of the Secretary

Plormot sat for a bit in silence, digesting the purser's interview.

"In view of what we know," Plormot said, "we should follow up with Mr. Qozz."

The young Federate man appeared quickly.

"How are things coming along?" He seemed amiable as ever.

"I have learned something since last we spoke. I now know the true identity of Mr. Evered." Wroe'bex Qozz leaned forward.

"As you mentioned in your suspicions, Evered was not his true name. In truth, he was Parisi, the man who ran a kidnapping ring in human space – Federate territory. Including the case of Daisy Archer."

Qozz's face, naturally a grey hue, sickened in color as his expression darkened. He swore.

"You did not suspect his identity?"

"No, sir!" Qozz responded. "If I had known or even suspected, I'd have – I would have – well, I'm not sure exactly what, but I would have done just about anything other than organize his business affairs!"

"You feel strongly about this, Mr. Qozz?"

"Of course! Parisi was an affront to the very definition of morality. Besides, I have personal reasons to feel as strongly as I do. My father was the lead attorney who handled the case, Mr. Plormot. Over the course of the investigation, I saw Captain Hernandez on several occasions. She was …" Qozz pondered briefly for the right words. "She was so strong, and kind to me." His face darkened even further. "If ever a man deserved what he got, Parisi is him. I'm glad his dead."

"You feel as though you might have been willing to do the deed yourself?" Plormot kept his tone light and conversational.

"I do. I …" He trailed off and his ridges relaxed slightly. "I suppose I'm incriminating myself, aren't I?"

"I would be more suspicious of you, Mr. Qozz, if you had tried to display some great amount of sorrow at Evered's death."

"I'm not sure I could do that, even to save my own hide." Qozz, while still passionate, was smoothing out into his typical personable state. He paused.

"If I may ask, how in the cosmos did you figure out who he was?"

"By a fragment of a letter on a datachip found in his compartment."

"But I – I mean – Surely he'd be a fool to leave something like that lying around?"

"That depends," Plormot responded. He did not elaborate further. A beat.

"What I must do," Plormot picked it up again, "is to determine everyone's movements on the ship. I must therefore ask you several questions as a matter of course."

"Sure, of course."

Together, Plormot and Qozz established Qozz's movements. He had had left after dinner to his compartment, worked on some translations, spoke to a young human female in the compartment next door. He'd fallen into conversation with the human lieutenant, Lieutenant Keller. Plormot had passed them by while they'd spoken. Qozz had gone to Evered's compartment to take additional notes for translation into letters he wanted to be sent. They'd said good night and Qozz had left. He'd struck up conversation with Lt. Keller again, and they'd gone to Qozz's compartment to carry on their discussion regarding politics and comparisons between systems and sectors.

"When did Lt. Keller leave you?"

"Close to two in the morning, maybe. It was pretty late into the night."

"The Orion Express had stopped by this point?"

"Yes, we'd noticed. Looked out of my porthole and saw the phal was building up pretty thick, but we didn't think it was serious enough to stop us for long. Anyway, we wrapped up and called it a night."

"When you and the Lt were talking, was your compartment door open?" It was. "Do you remember whether anyone passed by? The directions?"

"The purser passed along once or twice. And a woman passed by, going towards the toilet at the end of the hall."

"Which woman?"

"No idea. I wasn't really looking. I was arguing with Keller, so all I noticed was some red robe passing by. It might have had some gold on it, but I can't be sure."

"And did she return from the toilet?"

"I guess she must have."

"But did you see her pass by again?" Qozz thought for a moment.

"Well, no. I don't specifically remember her passing by again."

Plormot considered for a moment.

"Thank you, Mr. Qozz. I think that's all for the time being." After the axanarian left, Plormot sent for the steward.


	11. The Evidence of the Steward

The antaran arrived little fanfare. Whereas the purser wrung his hands with anxiety, and the axanarian exuded friendliness, the antaran simply entered. His facial ridges that covered his nose and stiffened his forehead and area under his eyes meant his expressions were naturally muted in comparison to other species. Even for an antaran, he seemed rather inexpressive and bored.

"You are the steward to Mr. Evered?"

"Yes, sir. For about ten months, now."

"Your full name?"

"Strophyr Zahn." They continued the exchange of questions and answers for basic information.

"You have heard your employer is dead, that he was murdered?"

"Yes. A very shocking occurrence." Neither his face nor his voice showed shock.

Mr. Zahn had last seen his employer around nine at night. He had folded Evered's clothes and organized his effects for the following day. He had ensured Evered had everything he needed for the night. Evered's manner was the same as usual – calm until he wasn't. He had been reading something on his pad and demanded whether Zahn had been aware of any new received messages. It wasn't his business to know something like that, it was Qozz's, so Zahn had said no. In response, Evered had cursed at him.

"Was that unusual?"

"Oh, no. He had a temper and he lost it easily. He's very human. It just depends on what has happened to make him angry."

"Did Evered ever use sleep aids?"

"When hopping the void, always. He said he couldn't sleep in space."

"What did he use?"

"I don't know. There was no label on the container. It was just a box filled with the individually wrapped bandages that you put on your neck."

"Did he put one on last night?"

"Yes, sir. I left one on his side table for him to put on for when he was ready."

"You didn't actually see him unwrap it and put it on?" The steward had not.

"What happened after that?" Apparently, Evered hadn't wanted anything further, and told Zahn that he didn't want to be disturbed in the morning until he rang for the purser to fetch him, which was perfectly normal.

"Were you aware that Evered had enemies?"

"Yes, sir." Matter of fact.

"How?" He'd worked in close quarters with both Evered and Qozz, and overheard their discussions over the letters.

"Did you like your employer, Mr. Zahn?" The steward's face somehow became even more blank.

"He was a generous employer."

"But did you like him?"

"I'll just say that I'm not too fond of humans, sir."

"Have you ever been to Earth?"

"No, sir."

Upon Plormot asking whether Zahn remembered reading of the Archer case, the antaran's face finally showed some change. He blinked and his nose ridges bunched ever so slightly.

"Yes, sir. A child, a girl, wasn't it? A shocking affair." This time, his affect showed some shock.

"Did you know that your employer, Mr. Evered, was the culprit in that crime?"

"No, sir." The steward had started to show more life in his responses. "If that's true, I can hardly say I'm upset about it."

They moved on to Zahn's movements the prior night, which were simple. He had left Mr. Evered's compartment, informed Mr. Qozz that Mr. Evered wanted to see him, and continued to his compartment. He hadn't slept until sometime late, due to restlessness.

"And you shared the compartment, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir. A big human."

"Is he from Earth, do you know?"

"I'm not sure, sir. He worked as a freight crew member for one of the human transportation companies, I think."

"Did the two of you talk much?"

"No, sir. I tried to sleep early."

"But you were restless, is that right?"

"Yes, the human tried to be quiet, but he snored."

"Did you hear anything else during the night?" He didn't think so.

"As far as you know, did Mr. Evered and Mr. Qozz get along?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Evered could be difficult, but Mr. Qozz is always very pleasant and adept at diffusing tension."

Plormot nodded along. They established that Zahn's prior employer had no longer needed his services due to a move to the Betazoid region, and Zahn promptly gave the contact details for verification once the phal cleared.

It was all Plormot desired to know at that point, so Zahn cleared his throat and said:

"Sir, the elderly risian lady is in something of a state. She's been saying she knows all about the murder, and has been demanding to speak to someone in authority all this morning." Bael was sent to bring her.


	12. The Evidence of the Risian Lady

Mrs. Porxa Valy'r arrived with a near-overwhelming amount of energy and immediately articulated her demands once over the threshold.

"Who's in charge here? I've been _waiting_ for over an _hour_ to speak to someone in authority, and all I can say is that the pace of this process is disappointing to say the least! I-"

Plormot stood and gestured respectfully to the seat opposite him.

"Please be seated. I will hear your comments."

Mrs. Valy'r plunked down in his offered seat, already talking again.

"It's more than a couple of comments, I can _assure_ you. This is a matter of grave concern, and not the time for random comments. I have been _trying_ to tell people all morning! There was a murder on the ship last night, and the murderer was _right there in my compartment!_ "

She paused and allowed the drama to fill the space.

"Are you certain?" Plormot ventured.

"Of _course_ I'm sure! Oh, really! I know what happened in my own room while I was _in it!_ I had gone to bed and was asleep when something woke me up. I had turned my lights off, so everything was dark and I just _knew_ there was a man in my compartment. I sort of froze up and I couldn't scream, or even breathe if you can understand me. I was just so frightened and I just lay there thinking I would be killed. Strangled, maybe." She sighed.

"These awful ships, with all the terrible things that happen that you read about," she took no notice at Mr. Douqh's indignant shifting in his seat. "Anyway, I suddenly thought about my valuables, and I was glad that I'd stuffed all my best jewelry into a sock and put it in with my makeup bag. No one would think to look there." She patted at her neck, where an expensive necklace with a pendent resembling her forehead marking sat. She came to herself. "Where was I?"

"There was a man in your compartment."

"That's right. Well, I was laying there with my eyes closed and I just thought about my daughter and how grateful I was that she was nowhere near here and that she has no idea what I was _going_ through.

"Anyway, I managed to gather my courage and feel for the bell to call for the purser for help. I rang and rang and rang and no one came. I was certain that maybe the whole ship had been murdered and I was the only one left, except the man in my room! Everything was quiet, except for my pushing the bell for help. Imagine my relief when I finally heard footsteps running down the hall and knocking on my door. I screamed for him to come in and I turned on the lights and-" She took an uncharacteristic breath of air.

"Yes?" Plormot prompted.

"Would you believe it, there wasn't anyone there." She stared down the three men with an air of certainty at having delivered the headline reveal. Dr. Suric sat back at the letdown.

"What happened then?"

"Well, I told the purser what had happened, and he _didn't believe_ me! He was trying to tell me that I'd imagined it all up. The nerve! I made him come in and look under the side table and under the berth and the side seat, and he said there wasn't room for a man to stuff himself down there. He was so infuriating, the way he tried to tell me to calm myself! I don't have much of an imagination, and I didn't dream it. You can be sure of that, Mr. - what's your name?"

"Hilus Plormot, and this is Mr. Douqh, director of Agate Incorporated, and Dr. Suric."

"That's very nice," Mrs. Valy'r said politely, though it was clear she didn't particularly care to know Mr. Douqh or Dr. Suric's names.

"Anyway, for a while there, I had been positive the man in my room had been the man next door to me – the one who's been murdered. I told the purser as much but he refused to go knock on his door so late a night and now I know it would have been useless, anyway, because he would have been dead by then, anyway. I suppose you'll want to know what time all this was, but I'm afraid I can't help you, there. I was too afraid by everything to check the time. But, it should hardly matter, anyway, because I've figured it out for you well enough. The man in my room was the human man's murderer."

Another pause while Mrs. Valy'r basked in her brush near danger.

"And you believe he went back into the adjoining compartment?" Plormot asked.

"How should I know? I had my eyes closed. I was scared, you see."

"He must have slipped out through the door then, into the hall."

"I wouldn't know, I'd closed my eyes." She didn't seem to be bothered by repeating herself. "I was so afraid, I'm just _relieved_ that my daughter-" Plormot jumped in before anyone had to find out the next detail about Mrs. Valy'r's daughter.

"What you heard, was it the sounds of someone moving around next door in Mr. Evered's room?"

"No, not really, Mr. - what is it? Mr. Plimmef, is that it? Plormot, you say? Well, what a name. The man was there. In the same room with me. Really, I can tell the difference between the sound of someone a meter away in the same room and someone in the next room over! It's understandable if you don't believe me, I know it's your job. My daughter always says people are just doing their jobs. Anyway, I have fulfilled my responsibility to give you my account as a witness to events around this horrible circumstance." Without waiting for Plormot, she sat back and waited for further questions.

"Where is my water?" She murmured as she rummaged through an overstuffed purse while she waited. Though she didn't empty the contents onto the table, Plormot was able to see a collection of hyposprays, passkeys, a payment card, a pad set with a screensaver image of a very plain child, and various other odds and ends. Eventually, she unearthed the bottle and took a sip.

"Did you see anyone else last night?"

"That denobulan doctor, the lady who doesn't speak much Common – imagine not speaking Common! – she had come to me seeking an analgesic. I always carry some analgesic hyposprays in my bag, and she was able to help herself. Poor thing. She had a headache to begin with, but by the time she got to my door, she was all jittery – you've seen her, you understand – and it was all I could do to calm her down. She had accidentally opened Mr. Evered's door and he'd said crude things to her. I think he called her an ugly prostitute." Dr. Suric chuckled, only to be immediately shut down by a hot glare from Mrs. Valy'r. "Mr. Evered may be the victim of a crime, but it doesn't erase the fact that he lacked _a_ _ny_ sense of decency." Dr. Suric guiltily apologized.

"That is true enough, Mrs. Valy'r." Plormot agreed. "Tell me, do you remember the Archer abduction?"

"Yes, of course I do. It was headline news for months and months, and all at the new Federation's expense. Even now, the tabloids periodically dredge it up and rake through what happened if the news cycles are slow. Even on Risa, you couldn't turn on the news without spoiling your vacation retreat. Some of the tourists were downright disturbed that he just escaped without any punishment! Why, my daughter, she was absolutely-"

"It turns out he did not escape," Plormot hastily cut her off. "He is dead. He died last night."

"You mean…?" Mrs. Valy'r was halfway standing up in her seat, her excitement building.

"Yes, Mr. Evered's true identity was Parisi himself."

"You have _no idea_ just how pleased my daughter will be! I'd love to tell her in person, but with all this phal-"

"Did you know the Archer family, Mrs. Valy'r?"

"Well I wouldn't have, would I? The Archer family moved in a very exclusive set of circles. Captain Archer, he was a famed hero, of course. Saved Earth and the next couple of systems almost by himself. And Captain Hernandez was nothing to sneeze at, she was just as accomplished. Why, my daughter-"

"Mrs. Valy'r, you've been very helpful. Do you have, by any chance, a red bath robe?"

"No, I've got a cozy blue one." After finalizing a couple of mental notes, Plormot gave a gracious smile and bid Mrs. Valy'r farewell. She sailed out with her characteristic pomp.


	13. The Evidence of the Denobulan Lady

Plormot sat back and closed his eyes for a moment after Mrs. Valy'r's departure. Mr. Douqh and Dr. Suric allowed him the time to contemplate.

"So much was spoken, yet so little discussed," Plormot muttered. He straightened up again. "Now, to the denobulan lady …" he perused the stack of passports. "Here. Finta."

She arrived, sat and peered at him with a mild-mannered, nervous, smile. Though visibly nervous, she was calm, as though she had resigned herself long ago. Plormot considered her advancing age may have been the primary factor in her resigned disposition.

Since her Common was too poor for Plormot to feel comfortable in discerning nuance, they settled into using Axanarian, which both spoke fluently. After asking her the standard questions surrounding her identity and address, he turned to her occupation. She was a missionary for one of Denobula's smallest religious sects that sought to relieve the suffering of the quadrant.

"You do not practice medicine, then?" Plormot asked. He received an odd look from the woman.

"No. I was once a doctor, some years ago, but I was not meant to continue on that path." The wistful pain in her face and tone was evident, so Plormot moved on to a lighter topic.

"Common is a bit difficult, to learn, is it not?"

She nodded.

"I require more practice to remember it."

"Still though," Plormot continued brightly. "It's nothing to learning English, I should say."

She smiled a small, genuine smile for the first time.

"It breaks so many rules, it is true."

Having sufficiently smoothed conversation with small talk and pleasantries, Plormot got to task.

"You are aware of what occurred last night?"

"Yes. It is such a dark thing to happen. And the risian lady, Mrs. Valy'r, she tells me the murderer was in her compartment."

"It appears that you were the last person to see the murdered man alive?"

"I don't know. It is possible. I had opened the door to his berth by mistake. I was so embarrassed, you see. It was really quite awkward.

"You saw him? He was alive at this point?"

"Yes. He was reading a pad. I apologized and closed the door."

"Did he say anything to you before you closed the door?"

The shy woman's face flooded with deeper embarrassment.

"He said something quickly. It was in Common… I did not understand it." Plormot tactuflly permitted the lie and asked his next question:

"What happened after that?"

"I went to the next room, the risian woman. I asked Mrs. Valy'r for an analgesic and she gave it to me. After that, I went back to my compartment and went to bed." At Plormot's request, she estimated, "It was almost eleven. Perhaps 10.55 or so."

"Did you sleep quickly?"

"No, my head got better but I still took time to sleep."

"Had the Orion stopped before you fell asleep?"

"I don't think so. I think we stopped at a planet-side station as I was getting drowsy, but think I remember us leaving atmosphere before I finally slept."

"You are in a shared berth, is that right? The upper or lower bunk?"

"Yes. The lower one."

"Tell me about your berth-mate."

"She is a young human. Very nice, very proper. She came through Ghavad, I think."

"After the Orion left Nondinsi atmosphere, did she leave the berth?"

"No."

"Are you sure? What of after you fell asleep?"

"I am a very light sleeper and I am sure I would have awoken had she climbed down. Besides, one of the rungs on her ladder is loose and has a clinking rattle sound."

"And you did not leave the compartment?"

"Not until this morning." She hitched. "I fear my sister will think me dead, with no word of our arrival…" Plormot tutted. The woman's fears were rather repetitive.

"Don't worry. As soon as we fail to meet our scheduled stop, the next station will attempt to contact us. Once we fail to respond, they'll know it was the phal system moving through and they will come with a cleanup crew to clear our ship's venting ports and other systems." Mr. Douqh had jumped in to assuage her fears.

"Now, do you have a red bath robe?" She blinked at the abrupt change in subject.

"No, I have a pale purple one."

"What is the purpose for your trip?"

"A holiday. I stay with my sister."

"Have you ever been to Earth?"

"Almost, once, but no. I was to go some years ago, but injury prevented me, and the trip was canceled. They are a generous species, humans. They are generous to fund some of my mission work."

"Do you remember the Archer abduction case?" Plormot watched her carefully.

"No, what is that?" A blank look that Plormot estimated to be genuine lack of knowledge on the matter. Plormot explained the case's details. She exhibited a trembling indignation and made comments fitting as much. And, Plormot saw, hot tears welled in her eyes, though she blinked them away. Satisfied, Plormot sent her off.

He briskly tapped notes into his data pad.

"What are you writing?" Mr. Douqh asked. Plormot finished and slid the pad across so his companions could read the chronology he'd pieced together from interview accounts.

9.15 – Orion leaves Epuhled.

~9.40 – Steward leaves Evered with sleeping aid.

~10.00 – Qozz leaves Evered.

~10.40 – Finta sees Evered (last seen alive) reading a pad.

00.10 – Orion leaves Nondinsi late.

00.30 – Orion runs into phal – stopped.

00.37 – Evered's bell rings. Purser answers. Evered says [Axanarian]: "It's nothing. I was mistaken."

~01.17 – Mrs. Valy'r thinks man is in her compartment. Rings for purser.

Douqh finished reading the timeline, nodding.

"It is nice and straightforward."

"This does not bother you?" Plormot's tone peaked Douqh's attention.

"No, should it? It seems clear-cut. And the smashed watch aligns. It seems to be a given that the murder was committed at quarter past one. Even the excitable Mrs. Valy'r's account supports it. If anything, it makes everything that much clearer to me. The big orion man. He's spent time in Federation space, he admits it himself. And orions will do their own deeds themselves, particularly abductions, slavery and other heinous crimes."

"This is true enough," Plormot said, though he didn't sound convinced.

"It seems clear he and Evered were in this kidnapping business together. Evered may have crossed him in some way – he hung his fellow kidnappers out to dry when they were caught. Perhaps Zraevetsol is taking revenge for Evered's lack of honor among thieves. Zraevetsol tracks him down and does the deed." Douqh sat back with twinkling pride at building his case.

"Hm," Was all Plormot responded.

"It all fits, don't you think?" Douqh prompted, having warmed to his own genius.

"What of the steward, the restless sleeper who swears the orion never passed by the compartment? And the timelines given by the purser Bael and Lieutenant Keller don't allow for Zraevetsol to have done the deed."

"Well," Douqh caught up with himself. "That's a problem."

"Hm, yes. It is very fortunate for our orion friend that Mr. Evered's own steward, the purser and the lieutenant have given an excellent alibi."


	14. The Evidence of the Antaran Princess

"We still need to speak to eight more passengers," Plormot was once again brisk. "Princess Nehn, Count and Countess Kyrth, Lieutenant Keller, Mr. Zraevetsol – your orion suspect, Miss Lee, Mr. Stills and Miss Toloe."

"Who will you see first – the orion?"

"My, you hyperfocus on your chosen culprit! No, from here on, we will work our way down the social ladder. The Princess, she will expect to take precedent over others."

Due to her station, Princess Nehn of Antar was given every latitude. Despite being given the option of meeting places, be it her own quarters, the dining room, or any other place she might prefer, she opted to come to the dining compartment. Mr. Douqh was exceedingly gracious to her at every step and spoke in the most formal conjugations of Antaran language. She cut him off, however.

"No need for apologies. I understand a murder has taken place, and a process must commence to interview everyone. I will conform." Her once gray face, now yellowed with age, was just as ugly and proud as ever. Her eyes, peaking out from under wrinkled folds, blinked with calculating intelligence. Again, her presence was felt, just as she demanded it. They began with the routine questions. She was direct with all of her responses.

"You have come from Cophrates, Princess?"

"Yes, I was a guest at the Antaran embassy there, with my maid."

"Would you do me the honor of giving me an account of your movements last night after dinner?"

"Yes. I told the purser to arrange my berth for the night while I was at dinner. I returned to my compartment and got into bed immediately after dinner. I read until eleven when I turned out my light. I am old and plagued by joint pains, so I rang for Tehf – Tehf Toloe, my maid. She gave me an anti-inflammatory and talked with me until I was ready for sleep. I don't know precisely when she took her leave. It might have been thirty minutes, perhaps more."

"The Orion had stopped by then?"

"Yes."

"And you heard nothing out of the ordinary last night, Princess?"

"Nothing."

"Your maid, she has been with you for how long?"

"Five years."

"You consider her trustworthy?"

"Absolutely. I have employed her for five years, but she came highly recommended by friends of mine. I have in fact known her and her prior employers for years."

"You are quite well-traveled. You have been to Earth, Princess?" She raised her wrinkly brows in response to Plormot's change in questions.

"Many times."

"To San Francisco?"

"Of course."

"To New York?"

"On occasion."

"At any time, did you meet the Archer family, Captain Archer, or perhaps his wife, Captain Erika Hernandez?" For the first time, the princess allowed a soulful heaviness into her voice.

"Yes."

"You knew them well, it seems?"

"I only knew Captain Archer slightly. But I saw Erika Hernandez as the granddaughter I never had. I was quite close with her mother, Lillian Aldana. I discovered the richness of human culture through her performances as an actress. She is, both on Earth and in much of the Federation, considered to be one of the greatest performers in tragedy. No part was too much for her. Whether playing historical figures like Ochoa, or literary ones like Lady MacBeth, she was beyond the limits of gravity. I was an admirer of her work. But I was also honored to become her friend."

"She is dead?" At Plormot's question, she looked at him.

"No, she is alive, but her health is compromised. She lives in complete retirement and is largely housebound."

"I recall she, or her daughter Captain Hernandez, had another daughter, of sorts?"

"Of sorts. Captains Archer and Hernandez had obliged a request from a friend to take custody of their daughter. The father was to be deployed at war, and the mother had already passed. Jonathan and the father trusted each other, I understand."

"The father, he served with Archer?" She looked at him.

"I'm not familiar with their service histories, but they were friends."

"He served with Starfleet, this father?"

"I cannot be sure. As I say, I am unfamiliar with their histories, and besides, I am Antaran. I am unfamiliar with the structures of non-Antaran institutions."

"And the father and daughter, are they alive?"

"I am less certain of the father, but the daughter is alive."

"Where are they?"

"The father? As I say, I am uncertain whether he even lives. Now, I must ask why you are prying into these matters. How can they have any relation to the crime last night?" Her dead serious stop provided warning to Plormot.

"I will explain, Princess." Plormot made sure to show exceptional deference. "The man murdered last night was the man responsible for the abduction and murder of Captain Hernandez's child."

"I see." The wrinkles furrowed more deeply, and the princess took a moment to glare out the porthole into the phal.

"As I see it, this wasn't a murder at all. It was justice."

"That is understandable, Princess. Now, to the question you did not answer. Where is the ward of the Archers, the daughter of sorts?"

"I couldn't tell you. I travel a lot, and the younger Federate generation travels even more. I believe she married a few years ago and has stayed near the Sol system, but I cannot be more specific." A beat. "Do you require any other information of me?"

"Yes, one more thing. The color of your bath robe?" Again, her ridged eyebrows rose.

"A dark red."

"Is it all red?"

"No. There are white floral designs all over it." Indeed, even if her robe had fit the description, the Princess's shape and movement were so unique that Plormot was certain descriptions would have fit her had she been the one advancing down the passage.

"That is all for now. Thank you, Princess, for I am grateful and honored that you have answered my questions." She accepted the profuse thanks with a nod of her great head. Before she departed, she had a question of her own.

"You seem somehow familiar to me, sir. What is your name?"

"I am Hilus Plormot, Princess." She stopped a moment more.

"Yes, Hilus Plormot. Such Fate."

She moved off, shuffling from age, but with all dignity. After she'd gone, Plormot tapped on the table in thought.

"Whatever does she mean by Fate?" He murmured.


	15. The Evidence of Count and Countess Kyrth

Count and Countess Kyrth were summoned together. Only the Count appeared, however.

He was a study in peak Andorian physiology. Now that Plormot saw him face to face, he could fully appreciate the Count's looks. He was quite tall, even for an Andorian, with broad shoulders and well-structured antennae. His attire was modern and stately.

"Good day, sirs," he greeted. "Shall we begin?"

Plormot began by preemptively smoothing any ruffled feathers.

"I may need to ask some awkward questions, you understand?"

"Yes, yes," He said with a calm smile. "There's a process that must run its course and you must do your job. Not that my wife or I know anything that could help you. We were asleep and were quite unaware of events until today." They covered the introductory questions.

"Are you aware of the identity of the murdered man, sir?"

The Andorian ambassador cocked his head at the question, one antennae leaning forward.

"No. Surely you could find his passport, or check the flight manifests?"

"It is more complex than that. His recorded identity is Evered, but it was an alias. In reality, he was Parisi, the man behind a famed abduction and murder case."

If Plormot was expecting a large reaction, he got none. The Count's antennae returned to their resting stance and he seemed wholly unconcerned by the revelation.

"Well," the Count laced his fingers together, "the Sol system should be happy to have that case finally closed."

"You've been to the Sol system, Count Kyrth?"

"I was posted in San Francisco for a couple of years."

"Did you know the Archer family?"

"Archer… It's hard to say. So many people … so many of the buildings and institutions were named Archer. It's rather a common name among humans, isn't it." He gave a charismatic shrug. "Now, what more can I tell you?"

"When did you go to bed, sir?"

"We – my wife and I – went to our compartment straight after dinner. We're in the double berth at the end. When we got back, we played a game or two and went to bed."

"What game?"

"Chess."

"Which kind?" The quadrant was filled with so many varieties.

"I think it's from the Sol system."

"Are you good at it?" The question gave the Count pause.

"Not really, I'm still learning. My wife is teaching me."

"Did you notice the Orion stoppage?"

"No, not until this morning."

"And your wife?" He smiled at Plormot's question.

"She always takes a sleeping aid when traveling the void. I saw her take it." A pause. "I'm sorry we can't be of further help to you." He rose. Plormot gave a small, gleaming smile.

"Of course," Plormot opened, "All the same, though, I should like to have simply a small word with the Countess."

"I assure you it is quite unnecessary." His voice was measured and final. Plormot made sure to give another nonthreatening smile.

"It will be a mere formality, you understand. It is necessary for my report to be complete."

The Count considered for a split second before he grudgingly gave way.

"As you please."

While the Count was gone to send for his wife, Plormot reviewed his notes and the Countess's documents. It was not her personal passport, if she had one, but her Andorian diplomatic passport, obtained through her husband. Her name was a classic Andorian one: Talla.

Talla was quite common among girls of her generation, as the traditional name had recently made a comeback into vogue. Much like Emma for humans. Or X'shre'ckhwn'al-tuill'aeriea for Curleskans. Classic names.

"We must tread carefully," Douqh reminded Plormot, eyeing the diplomatic passport. "They cannot have any ties to the crime." Presently, Countess Talla Kyrth entered. She had a charmingly shy face.

"You wish to see me, sirs?" While her husband had answered questions in Common, she had opened discussion in Axanarian, so Plormot accordingly switched to her chosen language.

"Simply a formality, dear Countess," Plormot made sure to stand and give a bow as he pulled her chair for her. "I wish only to ask if you saw or heard anything last night that might help with this case."

"I didn't hear a thing, sir. I take sleeping aids. Once I take the hypospray, I am gone from the cosmos."

"I see. Well, I suppose that's all," She swiftly stood and was turning when Plormot said:

"Just a tiny moment more. Did you accompany your husband to San Francisco?"

A bit of deeper blue glowed under her icy cheeks.

"No, sir. We've only been married a year."

"That is good to know, thank you." She looked at him, her endearing face beautiful.

"Is that important?"

"My dear Countess," Plormot turned up his obliging nature even more. "I am a detective, and we must ask all kinds of questions. For example, I should like to know the color of your bath robe?"

She stared at him before giving a wonderful laugh.

"It's orange with white and purple designs on it. Is is truly related?"

"But of course, my dear."

"So you are truly a detective?" Her curiosity flattered him.

"At your service."

"But I thought there were no transit police or detectives in the Nivaluz region, until at least Rudaor."

"I am not a Nivaluzian detective, Countess. I am an intergalactic detective."

"You belong to the United Federation of Planets?"

"I belong to the _quadrant_ , Countess," Plormot could not help being dramatic. "You seem so refined, so educated, my lady." He added in English: "You speak English?"

"I know a _leetle_ , yes." Her phrasing in English was graceful.

"I shall let you get back to your day. Now, that wasn't too awful, was it?"

She lilted an antenna as she smiled and left.

"I didn't know you speak English," Mr. Douqh commented.

"Not well," Plormot said, "But I've been around enough humans to have picked up a few bits here and there."

Douqh sighed:

"What a pure girl." A pause. "Though, they did not have much to add, it seems."

"No," Plormot agreed. "They saw nothing, they heard nothing."

Another pause.

"Well, shall we see the Orion man now?" Douqh didn't get a reply, however. Plormot was thoughtfully tapping the diplomatic passport.


	16. The Evidence of Lieutenant Keller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I know they've read this already, this chapter is for Eireann, who helped spur this whole story. Enjoy!

"Well, shall we see the Orion man now?" Douqh didn't immediately get a reply, however. Plormot was thoughtfully tapping the diplomatic passport.

Plormot carefully replaced Countess Kyrth's passport in his stack. Turning to Douqh, he had an amused expression.

"You are so eager to see this Orion man be the culprit. However, I have a predetermined order in mind, my friend."

In fact, it was the upright and piercing Lieutenant David Keller who arrived at Plormot's summons. His Axanarian was not up to Plormot's preference, for picking up nuances, so they proceeded in Common. After covering the initial questions that revealed his name, age and so forth, Plormot hummed. Thus far, he'd responded with only his name, only his age and only his Starfleet rank. No elaboration, no explanation. He took time to warm, it seemed.

"You return home from Kaleshdu on leave, is that right? In Axanarian, we call it ~ _rest._ ~"

The lieutenant was uninterested in what a bunch of aliens called anything, so he merely said:

"Yes."

"But you are not going via Starfleet or Federate-affiliated vessels?"

"No."

Plormot inwardly grinned at the challenge of getting the man to use more than a yes or no.

"Why not?"

"Reasons of my own." Which Plormot correctly translated to: 'None of your damn business.'

"You are injured?" Plormot asked, thinking back to the discomfort he'd seen aboard the Taurus Express. He received a sharp look, filled with a flurry of calculations hidden behind hard eyes.

"No."

Plormot decided to take his chances:

"I have observed you, Lieutenant, and thought I noticed some unevenness in your walk."

It seemed the lieutenant still didn't give a damn what the little Xoisk had thought he'd noticed, so he waited to be asked a proper question. Very well.

"What route have you taken from Kaleshdu?"

"I had one night's layover in Charjhee and a three day stopover in Ghavad with the Federate base there."

"You had orders that sent you to the base in Ghavad?"

"No."

"Why did you go, then?"

"It was on my way."

"But why there, and not in a hotel with better accommodations?"

"I have a friend stationed there."

"Who?"

"Commander Veronica Fletcher."

"Did you see anyone else you know?" A sharp look of distaste.

"What do you mean?"

"You stopped for three days in Ghavad. Surely your friend, Veronica-"

"Commander Fletcher." Keller was polite in his correction, but unyielding. He had the discipline to leave off where he did, but Plormot still heard the silent suffix: 'To _you_.'

"Surely Commander Fletcher's duties would not have left her free to visit with you for three days, or even two. I understand the other human woman, Miss Lee, is also traveling from Ghavad. Perhaps you met her there?"

"No. I met Miss Lee when we shared a hovercraft to board the Taurus Express."

Plormot leaned forward and exhibited as much persuasion as he could.

"Lieutenant, I must appeal for your help. You see, while Mr. Stills seems a most amiable and open human, I find Miss Lee to be difficult to read. As another human, I must ask each of you your opinion of each other." He could immediately see his plea held no sway with the man across from him.

"A useless exercise." Keller's tone had somehow become even less welcoming.

"Truly. For you see, this crime was almost certainly committed by a woman. The victim was stabbed over ten times. Even the chief engineer, a man without much in the way of brains, even he sussed it out immediately, and deduced at once that it must be a woman.

"Well, then, Lieutenant Keller, you must see my predicament. Of the women we have on board, Miss Lee is the most likely. Certainly the Princess Nehn is quite old and physically frail, as is the shy denobulan lady, whose Common is rudimentary …"

"The doctor, Finta." Keller supplied to prompt Plormot to get on with it.

"Ah, yes, Finta. Finta is aged as well, and quite timid. That leaves the lady's maid to Princess Nehn, and the risian woman with the daughter, but they both are also getting on in age. The andorian Countess's movements are accounted for…" Plormot trailed off to underline his predicament.

"So you see, Miss Lee is female, she is young and healthy. I find her difficult to read. She is _human_ , as is our victim-"

"You've made your point." Keller cut in, having wearied of Plormot's act. He added: "And your assumption that the culprit is female, based on the accusations of an engineer whom you call brainless, is shaky to say the least."

"In the interest of justice and of proper procedure," Plormot began again, "What kind of person is Miss Lee? What do you know about her?"

"Miss Lee," the lieutenant said simply, "is of an upstanding and kind nature."

Plormot leaned back with an air of relieved satisfaction.

"So you think she is unlikely to be related to this crime?"

"The idea is absurd," Keller confirmed. "They were strangers to each other and she had never set eyes on him before."

"She said so to you?"

"Yes. She commented as much. I assure you she had never seen him before."

"You feel protective of her, it seems," Plormot commented. He gave a smile.

Lieutenant Keller simply stared back, his manner cold.

"I don't know what you mean." He lied.

It was a bald-faced lie. Plormot could tell Keller knew that he knew the lie. But that predator's stare cowed Plormot into dropping his gaze and shuffling the passport stack on the table.

"Well now," Plormot gave a nervous upwards glance. "Let us proceed.

"We believe the murder occurred at 1.15 late last night. I must ask after everyone's movements surrounding that time."

"Good. As best as I can tell, I was sitting and talking with the young Axanar man. The dead man's secretary."

"Were you in his compartment or was he in yours?"

"I was in his."

"You are good friends?"

"No, we've never seen or spoken before this trip. We got to chatting yesterday. I generally don't spend time with aliens, I've never had much use for them, but Qozz is a good kid. He's rather naive and idealistic, but he's got an open mind and he'll learn, yet. In any event, we got to talking until I checked the time and saw it was almost two in the morning."

"That's when you ended your talks?'

"Yes."

"What did you do then?"

"I went to my berth and went to sleep."

"Where was the purser when you left Mr. Qozz?"

"He was sat at that little chair and table at the end. But then Qozz called for him to make up his bed, since we'd been sitting in there and it hadn't been extended, yet."

"While you two were talking, did anyone pass by the door outside the room?"

"Lots, I should think. I wasn't looking."

"But specifically later, once most had retired to bed. You got out at Nondinsi, isn't that right?"

"Yes, I took a brisk walk for the air. But the stop was a short one, and the air wasn't to my liking, so I got back on after a couple of minutes."

"And after, it is quite late at that point, did anyone pass by?"

"I wasn't paying attention. Qozz had strange ideas about Kaleshdu and I was setting him straight. I wasn't looking at the door. Although," He stopped himself short.

"Yes?"

"Well, aside from the purser going by now and then, I seem to remember a rustling sound as someone passed by, and a perfumed scent."

Plormot pounced on the tidbit:

"What sort of scent, what sort of perfume?" But Plormot received a blank look in return.

"The perfume kind." Pause.

"In any event, I never saw her, so I couldn't describe her, nor am I certain of the timing."

"Did she pass after the Orion stopped?"

"I believe so."

"Have you ever been to San Francisco?" If the lieutenant was surprised at the abrupt change in questions, he didn't show it.

"Not really. I've been through several times as a matter of course – deployments and logistical duties and the like, but I've never spent time there."

"What about New York?"

"New York the city? Much in the same way. I've passed through, but only for a couple of hours here and there."

"What about…" Plormot searched his memory for the name. It had an odd spelling for its pronunciation.

Of all human languages, English was perhaps the most fitting official language to represent a confusing, chaotic people that routinely deviated from their own professed rules.

"What about Schenectady?" He received another look of distaste.

"You seem to think I make a habit of spending my free time traipsing around in the States. I'm not from that hemisphere, so I would have no need to visit odd corners of that country."

"Did you ever know an Archer?"

"Yes, I've known a few Archers. There was Colonel Emma Archer, she was a MACO, but otherwise alright. And Sylvester Archer, he was killed in Operation Neerja Bhanot."

"I mean Captain Jonathan Archer, who married Captain Erika Hernandez and whose only child was abducted and murdered."

"Yes, of course, most everyone on Earth should remember that. I never ran across him personally, but everyone knew of him. He saved our planet." Keller was looking towards the phal. "Everyone regarded him quite highly." Plormot listened for the typical admiration most humans bore the famous man.

"The man killed last night was under an assumed identity. He was responsible for the murder of Daisy Archer, Captain Archer's child."

"In which case, he deserved what he got."

"You support the way his life was ended, Lieutenant?"

"Not in the least," Keller answered promptly. "The true shame is that he wasn't held to account by the system to begin with."

"So you would prefer the lawful course over private revenge?"

"Well, you can't go around stabbing people just because you've determined they need to die," Keller replied. He held Plormot's gaze, and Plormot fought the urge to look away. "Say what you will of Earth's process, but trial by jury is a sound system."

"You feel strongly in the matter, then?"

"I'm sure you're aware humans have evolved killing each other in all sorts of ways." Was he ever. "We developed a process to negate the need for revenge." Plormot considered the man across from him.

"Yes," he agreed. "Your view is quite fitting of who you are. Well, to wrap up, Lieutenant, is there anything else from last night that sticks to your memory?"

"Well," Keller started, then stopped himself.

"Yes?"

"Well, it's nothing," the Lieutenant undercut himself. "Only, you did say _anything_."

"Please, continue."

"It's only, on my way back to my berth from Qozz, there was the compartment beyond mine, and the door was open a bit. There was a man peeking out." He hurried on. "I know it's nothing, but it just raised a flag with me. People look out of their rooms all the time, but it just struck me as odd that he would be peeking out like that, rather than just stick his head out like people normally do. It was in _how_ he saw me looking and closed the door that caught my eye."

"Hm," Plormot hummed noncommittally.

"As I say," Keller took on an apologetic tone for the first time, "I realize it's nothing, but it was the dead of night, and it just, well, you know." He abruptly stood, likely to cover over his lame ending.

"If there's nothing else."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. There's nothing more for the moment." Yet the human hesitated for a moment.

"About Miss Lee," he started. Plormot waited.

"I assure you that I know her type, and she's one of the good ones." He turned and left, and Plormot noticed that the back of the human's ears had started to glow a reddish color.

"For the first time," Plormot crowed to his companions, "we can witness our soldier when he is beyond his depth."

"You mean his ears?" Dr. Suric had indeed picked up on the human's heightened coloration from flushing. "It seems he was threatened or embarrassed."

"I mean," Plormot said, "that without his military structure to frame his thoughts and actions, he is left an awkward man. He flounders."

"It seems he also can offer no light on this matter," Douqh lamented. Then he perked up. "Unless the room beyond the lieutenant's, I believe, belongs to the orion man."

"Always with your suspicion of the orion," Plormot chastised. "But back to Keller. He knew of Captain Archer, though that is hardly surprising. Yet it seems so out of character that this honorable, unimaginative, man should stab a drugged enemy so many times, and so poorly!"

"Back to your psychology," Dr. Suric sniffed. "You go on and on about it, to the exclusion of physiological probabilities."

"We must respect psychology," Mr. Douqh hastily defused any tension between the two, " _and_ the physiological facts."

"This crime," Plormot ploughed on, "has a certain feel to it, and I am hard-pressed to assign it to Lieutenant Keller. But I digress. We must get on to our next interview."


	17. The Evidence of Zraevetsol

To Douqh's private satisfaction, the orion man finally arrived. He was a big man, with deep green skin and he entered with a clash of colors and patterns. Unlike many orion men who preferred to shave their heads bald, he opted against that prevailing style to shave his hair, and instead had short black hair. He easily flopped into the chair across from Plormot with a good-natured guffaw and a great smile.

"Hello. What can I do for you?"

"You have heard of what has transpired, Mr. Zraevetsol?"

"Just Zraevetsol is good, we don't do the Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. or Miss thing."

"Zraevetsol, then. You are aware of what happened?"

"Sure thing."

"We're interviewing everyone on board."

"Uh huh."

"We are obligated to ask some potentially sensitive questions."

"Yup."

"We would greatly appreciate your help."

"Go for it."

Plormot shot a look at Douqh, who had the decency to look lightly ashamed. Contrary to his insistence that the orion man would be the perpetrator, the man before them was friendly and open, if a little clunky and odd.

"What is the purpose for your travel?"

"I sell rotary belts. I am on my way to my next region for sales."

"Rotary belts?" Zraevetsol looked slightly bored, though still good natured, as he drew in a breath.

"In warp engines, there is a need for the coils to be fitted with a component that allows rotation of heat sinks. Without it, the heat sinks cannot be distributed and rotated properly. It leads to some heat sinks absorbing heat and, since they aren't rotated away, they can't efficiently expel the heat. Meantime, others could absorb more heat, but never get that hot. And while most vessel systems can compensate, there can be anywhere from 14-39% loss in efficiency, depending on the make. Depending on the model, there is difficulty in replacing this part. I sell both standardized parts, and custom-made orders."

Though the three men listening had only peripheral understanding of the spiel, they took the point.

"What can you tell us about last night?"

"Not much. I didn't know anything until morning."

"Walk us through what you did last night from dinner and after."

Instead of a prompt response, however, the man sat without a ready answer.

"You understand that I don't know you. Just who are all of you?"

Introductions were made, and Plormot's position as leading the case made clear.

"I'm familiar with your work." He said and sat for a moment, oddly ponderous for such a large personality. "I suppose I should tell you what I know, then."

"That would be most generous of you," Plormot was not amused.

"Well, the fact is, I _should_ know something. That's just the problem. It was my business to know, but I don't."

"What do you mean by that, Zraevetsol?"

Zraevetsol sighed while he dug into a pocket. With his sigh, he seemed to deflate from the larger-than-life caricature and reveal a decidedly grounded nature. His booming voice dropped into a reasonable tone and his posture shifted into one of perpetual tiredness.

"My passport is accurate, but this brochure of rotary belt sales was something I picked up at a stop in Rigel. This is my true occupation." He presented a workplace identification card. It revealed his employer to be the famed and historic Pinkerton Detective Agency, founded centuries prior. Plormot was familiar with the Pinkerton agency. Looking up to examine the man, it seemed entirely believable, clothing aside, that this handsome and suddenly serious man would work at such a place.

"You are originally from, where?"

"Dielgev Station. It orbits along the Belt."

The Belt. An asteroid field better known as Slaver's Belt.

"And since then?"

"I moved to Federation space when I was fifteen. Became a Federation citizen when I was nineteen. I've been primarily based in the Sol system ever since."

"Tell us of your true purpose for travel."

"Of course. A case brought me out to Sovuid; I was trailing a couple of persons of interest – nothing to do with this. I finally caught up to them in St'aldor. I sent notice to a Pinkerton outpost office of my role in the case closing and later received instructions to return. I was staying at the Tokatlian Hotel for a few days to wait for my boss's instructions, and I got this:" He had extracted his data pad, flicked through several screens and then showed the other men a received communication.

_Dear Sir – I have come to know you as a Pinkerton. My room number is Tk-0817. Arrive at 1800 hours. –S.R. Evered_

"I had yet to receive the instructions to return to the Sol system, so I went. Evered told me someone was out to kill him. He showed me letters and everything."

"What was his disposition?"

"He played it off as him hiring me for security as a matter of course, but I have enough experience with rattled humans to know them when I see them. I was to travel the same course as him and be an extra set of eyes so no one could carry out the threats in those messages." He frowned. "Not that it worked. I guess I should be glad I was doing this as a side job. My boss probably wouldn't be too impressed with how fantastically I failed."

"What was Evered's plan for you, specifically?"

"Well, I was supposed to get the compartment next door to his, but with the Orion being booked solid, that didn't pan out. As it was, I was relieved I was even able to get the berth I did."

"What other details can you give us?"

"Well, aside from a description of the one who was after him-" The three men all leaned in.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Evered described him as a small man, with an effeminate voice – like a woman's. I don't rightly know what he meant by that, maybe a high-pitched voice? Anyway, there you have it. A man, small, with a high voice."

"A man? Human? What species?" Plormot was leaning ever more forward.

"He didn't say."

"You didn't ask?"

"Yes, I asked him to be more specific, of course." Zraevetsol showed his first sign of annoyance. "He didn't say."

"He knew what his killer looked like?" Mr. Douqh exclaimed. "He knew things…"

"He knew more than he told his secretary and steward," Plormot agreed. "Did he tell you why his life was in danger?"

"He was cagey about it. Just said I'd be paid well for his traveling safely." He frowned again, likely at the loss of payment.

"Do you have any idea what Evered's true identity is?"

It was Zraevetsol's turn to lean in with interest:

"The risian woman has been spreading some fantastic rumor, but aside from that, I've no idea."

"Parisi. The culprit from the Archer Affair."

Zraevetsol leaned back with a small huff.

"Well, that's _that_ , then."

"You didn't recognize him? You would have been in Federation space during that time. Surely you saw the news?"

"I was all over when the case was being covered. It's probable that I saw photos of him now and then, but it would have been in between all the other photos of people in the news. All of that would have been after looking at photos of the people I was assigned to watch.

"Anyway, it makes sense now that he had enemies. He was cruel to good people, and from what I heard, he was cruel to people of questionable morals, too. It's a dangerous thing, to do wrong to those with the ability to hit back."

"To the description Evered, well, Parisi, gave you. Do you know of anyone connected with the Archer affair who fits? Small, with a feminine voice?"

"It would be difficult to say. As I understand it, nearly everyone connected with that case is dead."

"There was the girl who threw herself from an airlock."

"Sure. Not sure why she comes to your mind now, but yes. As I understand it, she was Xindi, so naturally there was an inherent suspicion of her, given how recent the Xindi attack was."

"She had to go through additional interviews, due to the extra suspicion," Mr. Douqh remembered. "They were transporting her to a specialized station orbiting Earth for more interviews, and she cracked and threw herself from an air lock." Zraevetsol nodded along to Douqh's recounting of events, watching the phal swirl outside the porthole.

After further questioning, Zraevetsol told of what transpired outside his door that night as he kept watch. Plormot took notes and after the big orion had left, he tapped out a rambling rhythm on the table.

"What do you think?" Douqh asked.

"Everything he says lines up with the events of last night. Both from my own experience, and from the others we have interviewed. Except for the woman in the red robe. His affiliation as a Pinkerton is easily proven, once the phal clears, so I am inclined to believe him on most fronts. As for the small man with the high voice … If only Parisi had elaborated. Spoke in a high voice? In what language, Parisi's native English? Common? Was it someone he knew, or knew of someone hired to go after him?"

"It is a description which doesn't apply to anyone on the train." Mr. Douqh was rubbing his eyes, trying to recall the faces and appearances of the passengers and crew.


	18. The Evidence of the Shuttle Salesman

Declan Stills walked in with smooth strides and he had a beaming smile on his boyish face. His entire person was sunny and eager. He spoke Axanarian fluently, with enough refinement that Plormot was satisfied there wouldn't be hitches.

"You are Declan Stills?"

"Yes, sir."

"A human from Earth?"

"Well, not anymore," Stills smiled. "I haven't lived there in years. I'm a shuttle salesman, now. It takes me all over, and I haven't done regular business in the Sol system in," he paused to think, then gave up. "A long time."

"You work for … a shipping company, is that right?" Plormot referenced one of Mr. Stills's documents. "Do shipping companies often sell many of their ships?"

"Horizon Shipping has expanded a lot in the last several years. It was founded as a single family-owned freighter making runs, sure enough. But they've since had a lot of success. They promoted me up to a salesman to sell ships, but it's more than that. I get their name out there and start building relationships. That way, there's trust to do business."

"You have worked there how long?"

"As a member of the docking crew? Only a year or so. But they liked me, I made an impression, so I was promoted to salesman, to run around the system and make friends. You see…"

A long and verbose explanation followed, outlining all the ways in which he was an asset to the company. He explained how he built relationships. He explained how he wined and dined those who distrusted him. He explained his upcoming appointment in Ualiw and how, with the delay from the phal, he would likely miss it – he explained how terribly bad it is for relationships and business dealings.

He explained his opinions on the Andoria-Curleskan Trade Agreement, and its consequences on Andorian mineral imports. He expounded yet more on the Kaleshdu-Rhovel Treaty on Nexus Routes and Solar Flare Percentages, set to expire in the next four years.

Plormot could hardly remember what question he could have asked that would result in this much information. He felt an odd sense of admiration. Here, Plormot had found a man who loved to explain things as much as he.

Stills's boyish, joyful face exuded satisfaction as he wrapped up.

"To clarify, you haven't been to Earth in years, is that right?" Plormot asked, inwardly bracing to receive another deluge of exposition.

"Where'd you get that idea? I'm not exactly from Earth anymore, it's true. I don't spend enough time there to consider myself a resident. But I pop by there often enough. I've been there on a semi-regular basis for the last ten years, at least."

"What of your family? Do you have anyone close to you?"

"Of course!" Stills smiled at the opportunity to discuss his beloved family. "I don't get to see them near enough. I left home once I was old enough. I was so excited to see the galaxy. But I miss my mother, and my brother-"

Plormot cut Stills's flood of memories off before it could get started.

"Have you ever met Evered before, at any time?"

"No, but I've met people like him."

"What do you mean by that?"

"When you meet as many people as I have – I meet lots of people, traveling all around, selling ships and …" he saw Plormot's face. "Well, Evered's a common enough type. Well-dressed, with a soft voice and a good handshake. But behind the facade, it's all off-kilter."

"Handshake?" Dr. Suric inquired. He had less exposure to human interactions. Once it was thoroughly explained, the doctor pulled a face at such an unhygienic practice.

"Well, it wasn't about hygiene back when it became a thing," Stills explained continued to say, giving Dr. Suric a friendly nod, "it was to mutually ensure neither was planning on killing the other. In fact-"

"Speaking of which," Plormot jumped in. "The dead man. You were saying behind the mask, Mr. Evered was not what he outwardly appeared?"

"Yeah, it's just my opinion of him, to be sure, but I'd bet my bottom dollar on it." Stills answered. "There are different labels for it, I'm sure. Psychopath, sociopath, or whatever. I wouldn't know the technical definition, but I know the feeling I get when I'm around people like him. Warning bells go off all over."

"Your opinion is correct," Plormot said. "Evered was, in truth, Parisi, behind the Archer Affair."

"What'd'I tell you? I'd bet my bottom dollar! It's my experience as a traveling salesman, reading people."

"What do you remember about the Archer Affair?"

"Not a lot. It was a kidnapping… a little girl, I think."

"Yes, a tragic affair." Stills, however, was the first person to take a more blasé viewpoint.

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of evil in the world – excuse me, pre-contact expression – the universe, I suppose. These things happen, especially with such large economies-"

"Did you ever cross paths with members of the Armstrong family?"

"I don't see why I would have. They were high rollers. That's not to say I didn't grow my own income over the years. Last quarter alone, I increased my portfolio by-"

"Please, Mr. Stills, let us focus on the matter at hand."

Declan Stills gave a bashful smile by way of apology. Plormot had not doubt as to the man's ability to wear others down with a mixture of talking and charismatic charm. Mostly the talking.

"What were your movements, last night after dinner?"

Stills explained how he'd remained for some time after dinner, talking with the other salesman, the orion. They are in a similar field of work, so it makes sense they'd get on. But the orion is maybe a bit new to the job, since he doesn't seem to know that much about rotary belts, or else he gets bored talking about them – a sure sign of a poor salesman.

Rotary belts are essential in maintaining the efficiency of ships wishing to travel the void for any length of time. Just as a human house needs a good foundation to protect from tectonic shifts and a good roof to protect from the elements, so a space vessel needs a good design structure to support its bulkhead, and a reliable warp engine. Without well-fitting rotary belts, one cannot hope to maintain the integrity of the ship's engine systems. Problems will multiply and if left unchecked, will result in a cascade into failure.

After some redirection, Stills told them of how, after he left the dining section, he'd gone to his compartment. The miserable antaran man who shares it was performing his duties as steward to the dead man. Eventually, the other man returned and was very poor for conversation. It dawned on him that the antaran man perhaps didn't want to talk. He sat and read and refused to carry on conversation. Then the purser arrived, extended the berths into position and the two got into their beds and tried to sleep. He woke periodically, always to hear the other man tossing and turning in his bunk.

"Do you know if he left the carriage at all during the night?"

"He didn't. I was in the upper bunk, and whenever the door opens, the light in the hall shines into my face. It's placed just outside."

"Did he mention his employer, ever? Did they have a good relationship?"

"I couldn't possibly say. I tried to get him into talking, but he wouldn't respond. I asked him how it was working for Evered, and he didn't answer. I asked him how it was working with the axanarian, Qozz, I think he's called, and he didn't answer. I asked him whether I was annoying him and he still didn't respond."

"Thank you for your time and all of your insight, Mr. Stills."

"That's it? Huh, I thought you'd have all sorts of questions more to ask. Well, you know where to find me, then!" He stood with that engaging smile of his.

The three men enjoyed the reigning quiet.

"He is friendly," Dr. Suric was, surprisingly, the first to speak. "But he is also human, and could have known the parties involved. And he is certainly physically capable – he looks to be quite strong."

"Certainly," Plormot agreed. "And he is correct on another point: The nature of the dead man in question. So unassuming on the exterior, but his inner beast was there. I questioned whether our Mr. Stills might be the same, friendly and talkative on the outside. But darkness on the inside. I do not see it, however."

"If he were to become angry, or threatened," Douqh postulated, having finally forgotten his suspicion of the orion man. "Could he not revert into a primal mode? They say humans, as well-structured as their society may be, they say humans themselves have not evolutionarily settled into peace. That their primal instincts are closer to the surface."

"I do not think you are wrong, and it may be human in nature." Plormot answered. "But this crime does not lend itself towards a crime of instant passion. The very limited amount of evidence tells us this, among other things. I suspect that this crime has been very carefully planned and staged. It feels to be a long time in the making. It is a crime that lends itself more to a cool, resourceful, ruthless mind."

He picked up the last two passports.


	19. The Evidence of Miss Lee

When Hannah Lee entered the room she confirmed Plormot's prior estimations of her.

She was neatly dressed, her hair smoothly twisted and tucked away. She was neat as a pin and exuded a wholly calm and unruffled aura. She sat at Plormot's gesture and waited for them to start. Plormot began with the basic questions, speaking in Xoisk, and she did not disappoint him. She answered in Xoisk with proper tenses and conjugations. She didn't go so far as to fill out every sentence with pleasantries, though she did use formal conjugations.

Plormot gave a great start and realized they were leaving the good Dr. Suric out, so they switched to Axanarian, and Miss Lee obliged with perfect ease. After finishing the background information, Plormot paused for a moment, ostensibly to complete a note or two.

"You are a linguist by training, are you not? Out of interest, how many languages do you speak?" She gave a small shrug.

"It isn't quite like that."

"What do you mean?"

"It's …" She briefly searched for an analogy. "Your question invites a response in the form of an integer. Languages are a bit more like whole numbers; they can encapsulate a value anywhere on the number line."

"Whole numbers, Miss?"

"Languages are math – albeit a bit non-linear. Once you work out enough equations, new ones aren't so difficult. Many languages breed families and result in languages that overlap, or dialects that share vocabulary or structure. Once you know a few, it becomes easier to pick up the rest. And it isn't a matter of counting them like static values, since they evolve and change."

"Ah! I sense in you a great intelligence! It's a wonder some great university or the likes of Starfleet or the Federation haven't coaxed you into their ranks!"

If he had hoped to flatter her into a more open mood, his hopes stopped short. She simply dipped her head in acknowledgment.

Such dispassion.

"Now, if you would be so kind to tell us about the happenings last night."

"I'm afraid I have nothing to tell you. After dinner, I went to bed and slept."

"Are you not upset that a crime was committed last night?"

Her eyes widened slightly at the unexpected question.

"I don't understand you."

"It's a perfectly simple question, Miss. I will repeat it. Are you upset that a crime was committed on this vessel?"

"Oh. I hadn't framed it that way in my head. I suppose no, I can't say I'm particularly upset."

"Crime, it's a part of a normal day to you, eh, Miss?"

"It's certainly an unfortunate occurrence."

"You are very vulcan, Miss. You don't approve of emotion, do you?"

To his surprise, the comment elicited a wry smile from her.

"Emotions have their place, but they don't seem to fit these circumstances. People die every day."

"People die, yes. But murder has a bit more gravity."

"Yes, it does."

"Did you know the dead man?"

"I had never seen him before yesterday."

"How did he strike you?"

"I don't know that I particularly noticed him."

"He did make you feel as though you were in the presence of an evil person?" She blinked at him.

"Really, I can't say I thought about it like that." Plormot searched her face.

"I sense that you disapprove of the manner in which I am conducting this interview," he smiled understandingly.

"To your mind, and I'm sure in the Sol system and Federate regions, a proper investigation will limit itself to the hard facts and evidence at hand, no? And here, the questions I ask, they meander, they take us on tangents, they cover unrelated topics.

"In many places, an investigation would be straightforward and methodical. But I, as you may have noticed, I have my own methods. I look at my witness and get a feel for their character, their personality, and I proceed accordingly. Just before you, I questioned one of your fellow humans, who is verbose. I do my best to keep him stringently focused. I desire yes or no answers from him.

"But you, Miss, I see at once you live by the scientific method. You will automatically limit your answers to the specific matter at hand, and you will disregard any information that doesn't neatly factor into this case. Because, Miss, human nature is perverse, I ask questions of you that are quite different. I ask what you _feel_ , what you _thought_. This method displeases you?"

"If I may say so, it seems to be an inefficient use of time. Whether Mr. Evered's presence made me feel one way or another doesn't seem to be helpful in finding out who killed him."

"Do you know the man's true identity?"

She nodded.

"Mrs. Valy'r has been telling everyone."

"And what do you think of the Archer Affair?"

"It was terrible," came her simple answer.

A pause.

"You are traveling from Ghavad, Miss?"

"Yes."

"To Iser?"

"Yes."

"What have you been doing in Ghavad?"

"Language instruction."

"Are you returning to your post after?"

"No."

"Why?"

"It was only a temporary post begin with. I mainly took it so I could travel."

"It seems to me you have traveled a fair bit. You seem very at home in the cosmos. Why do you return to Iser?"

"It's time. I'd like to take a position there." It's time. Plormot regarded her a moment.

"I see. I had thought that you might be returning for courtship purposes."

Miss Lee did not verbally reply. She narrowed her eyes, however, and they plainly told him of his impudence.

"You have no answer?"

"There wasn't a question." She somehow managed to remove any inflection from her speech.

"What is your opinion of the lady who shares your compartment?"

"She seems to be a kind person." He rifled through his stack of documents, murmuring:

"What _is_ her name, again?"

"The doctor? Finta."

"Ah." Plormot sat back, puzzled. "And what color is her bath robe?" It was Hannah Lee's turn to stare.

"Purple. Sort of faded."

"And yours is…?"

"Green." He nodded, having himself seen it in passing on the Taurus traveling from Al'reshdhury to St'aldor.

"Do you have any other robe? A red one?"

"No, that isn't mine." And Plormot latched on.

"Then whose is it?" She was taken aback.

"I don't know."

"Why not?" Her confusion increased.

"What do you mean?"

"You did not say, 'No, I don't have a red one.' You said, ' _That_ isn't mine.' It means a red robe does belong to someone."

She nodded.

"Yes."

"So whose is it?"

"As I say, I don't know. I woke up sometime around five this morning because it felt strange that the ship's engines had been quiet for a while. The phal blocked up most of my view through the porthole, so I looked into the hall to see what was going on. There was someone in a red robe disappearing down at the end of the hall."

"And you didn't see who it was? Was she tall or short or fat or old?"

"I couldn't say. She had her head wrapped up in a towel and I only saw her from behind as she disappeared down the hall."

"And her build?"

"Tallish, I suppose, but with the towel piled on top, it's difficult to say. On the slender side, I think."

Plormot turned the information over in his head a few times, grimacing.

"None of this makes any sense."

Everyone sat patient while Plormot continued to contemplate. Then he looked up.

"Thank you for your time, Miss." She seemed a bit surprised at how abruptly the interview had ended, but promptly left.

Once she was gone, Mr. Douqh eyed his friend with curiosity.

"Why did you tackle her interview in such a strange fashion?"

"I was looking for some chink in the proverbial armor."

"Whatever do you mean by that?"

"Some flaw. In the woman's sense of self. She's very impersonal to the world, shows only a side of herself that is as cold as the vacuum just beyond our bulkhead. I was trying to flush out some further facet of her that she keeps to herself. Did I crack the shell at all? I don't know. But at the very least, she did not anticipate my methods in interviewing her."

"You suspect her," Dr. Suric commented, polishing his glasses while he thought. "But, she seems such a respectable young lady – the last sort of person to be mixed up in all this."

"She is cool-headed," Plormot responded simply.

"Further than that," Dr. Suric countered, "she is cold, you said so yourself. She doesn't approve of undue emotions. She wouldn't stab a man, switching hands and varying her force. She would instead bring a civil suit or research the means to take his money. Why do you latch onto suspicion of her?"

"Firstly," Plormot reshuffled his notes as he spoke. "The both of you must dispel your preoccupation with assuming that this murder was a stroke of luck and passion, and was somehow unpremeditated. It was not, I am certain of it.

"As for why I suspect Miss Lee, there are two reasons. One is because of something I overheard."

He recounted the private discussion he'd stumbled onto on their way from Al'reshdhury.

"It's strange, yes." Douqh said slowly. "It needs explaining. It certainly indicates towards your suspicions that the two of them are in it together."

Plormot continued:

"It is curious, though. If they _were_ both in this together, then I would expect them to provide each other's alibi. That is what cohorts in crime do, after all. But that does not happen. Miss Lee's alibi is provided by Finta, whom she has never seen before. And Lieutenant Keller's alibi is vouched for Qozz, the secretary." Plormot sank back into a moment of contemplation.

"What was the second reason for your suspecting her? You said there were two?" Douqh passed on.

"Ah, well the good Dr. Suric here might find this trying, but the second reason is psychological.

"Dr. Suric asks himself who could have _physically_ accomplished this crime. A sound question. I pose a psychological one: Who could have _planned_ this crime? Is it possible for Miss Lee to have planned it?

"Behind this murder, I have come to be convinced that there is a cool, resourceful, ruthless mind. Miss Lee answers to that description."

Mr. Douqh shook his head.

"I think you're wrong, dear friend. Yes, she seems the meticulous type, but this crime seems uncouth, and I don't see her as that."


	20. The Evidence of the Betazoid Lady's Maid

"Ah, well," Plormot acknowledged, picking up the final passport. "There is still one last suspect for us to interview. Tehf Toloe, a betazoid."

Summoned to the dining compartment, Tehf Toloe entered and stood, respectfully waiting. A perfect aid and traveling companion to aging royalty. Plormot motioned for her to sit and she complied, hands folded neatly and the three observed her as a calm, placid being. Perfectly respectable, though Plormot suspected she lacked an overly calculating mind.

Contrary to his methods with Hannah Lee, Plormot was nothing but gracious predictability with Miss Toloe. He was at his most kind, his manners were of the upmost precision, setting her at ease.

"We wish to ask you everything you know about what happened last night," Plormot continued. "We realize you cannot give much bearing on the crime itself, but as we understand it, you may have seen or heard something of value. Do you understand?"

Her face remained kind and set in its expression of well-meaning. She was eager to please, but bemused.

"I don't know anything, sir."

"It may mean nothing to you, indeed, but you may have information that may mean something to us." Again, the blank, good expression.

"Like what, sir?"

"For instance, your employer, the Princess Nehn, sent for you last night."

"That is correct."

"At what time?"

"I do not know, sir. I was asleep when the purser came and told me." Indeed.

"Yes, yes. So you have no idea roughly when this was?"

"No, sir. I did not check the time, so I have no idea."

Plormot inwardly stifled his exasperation with such clueless answers. Was this woman truly so insulated, so lacking in curiosity? He marveled at her unquestioning mind.

"Were the ship's engines running?"

"I don't know. May be so, or perhaps not. I don't notice these things."

Unquestioning.

"Is it usual for the Princess to send for you this way?"

"What way? Oh – there isn't usually a purser. The Princess doesn't have one in her service. I live on site, and she'll buzz for me directly."

Plormot found he was suddenly an admirer of the Lieutenant's sharpness, and of Mrs. Valy'r's imagination.

"No, no. I mean, was it usual for her to call for you in the middle of the night?"

"Oh, no. It isn't unusual, sir. The Princess often requires attention at night. She does not sleep well."

"Alright, then. She calls for you and you get up. Did you put on a robe?"

"No, sir. I put on some clothes. I wouldn't want to go to the Princess in my pajamas."

"It's a bright robe, isn't it? A formal red?" Plormot employed his usual tactic of posing an assumption to be either agreed with or dismissed by the other party.

She stared at him.

"No, sir, it isn't."

"What color is it?"

"Color?"

"Yes, the color." Would this entire interview be like pulling whiskers? Plormot took a breath.

"The color of your robe," he started again. "What is the color of your robe?"

"No color."

"My _dear_ Miss Toloe, what does that mean?"

"I don't have a red robe, sir." Her well-meaning face was stressed, now. "I don't have any robe at all. I've never owned one, and my pajamas have always served me adequately."

Such a linear thinker, she was, and such a stickler for implications in people's wording, Plormot was. Having finally realized the misunderstanding, he felt a bit annoyed at the woman's simple and linear mind. Needing to put her at ease again, however, he broke into a hearty laugh at the mistake. Such a _funny_ mistake! The quadrant is filled with little misunderstandings like these, and surely they could share the humor!

She mustered a nervous, though very confused, giggle at Plormot's urging.

"Continue, Miss! A little pleasantry on my part, that is all. So you went along to the Princess Nehn. And what did you do when you got there?"

"I gave her an anti-inflammatory, for her pain. And I read to her to distract her and lull her into drowsiness. When she was sleepy enough, she told me to go, so I left and returned to my own bed."

"What time was this?"

"I don't know, sir. I had no reason to check. Sometime in the night." Plormot suppressed his need to shake his head.

"How long had you been in the Princess's compartment?"

"Perhaps half an hour, sir."

"Good, continue."

"Well, I got her another blanket, to keep her joints warm. Then I poured her some water in case she needed any in the night, or in the morning. Then I left."

"And then?"

"Nothing. I returned to my bed and slept."

"Did you meet anyone in the hall?"

"No, sir."

"You are sure? For instance, you didn't see a woman in a red robe and gold trim?" Her eyes nearly bulged at his returning to the robe business.

"No, sir. Aside from the purser, there was no one around. Everyone was asleep."

"So you saw – directly, with your eyes – the purser?"

"Yes, sir?"

"What was he doing?"

"He was coming out of one of the compartments."

"Coming out? As in, he was fully inside the room, and was stepping into the hall? Facing away from the room?"

"Yes, sir."

"What?" Mr. Douqh leaned in, a frown growing. "Which one?" He was likely concerned with the implication of one of his crew. But, his spontaneous reaction had startled Miss Toloe, and Plormot shot him a reproachful look.

"It would be natural, perfectly natural, for the purser to answer bells in the night. Do you remember which compartment it was?"

"It was near the center of the section, sir. Two or three doors down from the Princess's room."

"Please fill us in on the details of what happened."

"Well, we nearly collided. It was when I was returning from my compartment with the Princess's extra blanket."

"And he was coming out of a compartment and almost ran into you? Which way was he going?"

"Towards me, sir. He apologized and passed me and continued down the hall. A bell started ringing, but I think he had something else to attend to first, because he didn't go for it."

"The poor purser," Plormot mused, "he had such a busy night. He must have run a _33 yul *****_ before the night was up. From waking you, then answering all the bells..."

"It wasn't the same purser to sent me to the Princess, sir. It was another one."

There was a moment's pause before Plormot reacted.

"Another purser. Had you seen him before?"

"No, sir."

"But you knew he was a purser?"

"He was wearing a ship uniform. What else could he have been but a member of the crew?"

"Do you think you would recognize him if you saw him?"

"I think so, sir."

Plormot gave hushed instructions into Mr. Douqh's ear. Douqh rose and sought out the attendant by the door while Plormot continued with Miss Toloe in that easy, relaxed manner he'd adopted for her.

"Have you ever been to earth, Miss Toloe?"

"No, sir. But I've seen travel destination advertisements for it. It looks to be a beautiful planet."

"You may have heard of who the dead man was. He boarded under a false identity. In truth, he was responsible for the death of an Earth child."

"Yes, I heard, sir. Mrs. Valy'r has been saying. I may be biased by her and the opinions of others on board, but it seems only just that he's dead."

And Plormot saw the unabashed sadness wash over the woman's face. She was truly a tender soul, who felt things keenly. It made her attentive to the Princess's needs, surely. She seemed to embody an ache for the bereaved family entire systems away.

Mr. Douqh had returned and whispered into Plormot's ear, who straightened and turned to Miss Toloe.

"The Orion Express's crew are entering in. Will you tell me which one you saw last night as you were going to the Princess with that extra blanket?"

Upon her consent, the purser, chief engineer, several attendants and other crewmen entered. Though only Bael, the purser should have had access to that section of the ship during those hours, Plormot had had Douqh fetch them all.

But the woman, having scanned the assembled crew, immediately shook her head.

"Sir, none of these men are him."

"But these are all the crew on board. Are you sure you aren't mistaken?"

"I am certain, sir. These are all tall or very broad men. The one I saw was smallish. He was not furred or tailed as some of the crew here are. When he apologized to me for bumping into me, his voice surprised me because it was so high in pitch. I remember him well, sir. None of these men are him."

* * *

 ***** 33 yul – A standard running distance, akin to a 10k. Sourced from reddit's HFY story, 'The Human Race' by Sacamoto. I highly encourage anyone interested to look it up. It's a short, delightfully fun read, broken into three parts.


	21. Summary of the Passengers' Evidence … and a Weapon

"A smallish man with a high voice." Dr. Suric repeated. They had dismissed the crew back to their posts and the Princess's lady's maid was sent back to her lady's side.

"I don't understand it!" Douqh exclaimed. "The man Parisi spoke of to Zraevetsol – he was on the ship after all? But how did he get off? If he had accomplices help him escape to another ship, how would they have made the rendez-vous with the Orion Express in all this phal? Sensors are blocked in the stuff! And we found the escape pod empty! So where is he now? How can he have vanished into the void? Did the vacuum of space blow him into particulate matter?! Why are you silent, Hilus?! Say something! I must be going mad – tell me how any of this makes sense!"

Mr. Douqh had worked himself up into a frenzy of questions, fueled partly by the long day and Miss Toloe's revelation, and partly by Hilus Plormot's silence.

"The impossible cannot have happened, Izu," Plormot reasoned. "A man cannot evaporate on a vessel without a trace – this ship has no functioning transporter, no high particle beam, no negative-space-chamber with which to dispel a person's existence under these conditions. These options are impossible, and by definition cannot have happened, in spite of appearances."

"Stop it with your imitation of vulcan logic! Use your intuition you talk of so much, and explain what actually happened last night."

"I don't have access to the secrets of the cosmos, dear Mr. Douqh. I, like everyone, am confused. This case has taken a very strange turn."

"Strange is an understatement." Douqh had deflated into a sullen mood. "We've gotten nowhere."

Plormot shook his head.

"Incorrect. We have come quite some way. There are some things we know. We've collected the accounts from all of the passengers."

"And yet it seems we need to start with the crew," Dr. Suric put in. "Given the killer had access to a crew uniform, or is a part of it." At the doctor's words, Izu Douqh seemed to slump even further.

"Don't despair quite yet, my friend," Plormot patted the stack of passports. "Let us review the case as it stands. The victim, Evered – excuse me – Parisi, was stabbed twelve times and died from those injuries last night. That is one fact we know.

"Next, there is the issue of the _time_ when the crime took place."

"Well, that's another singular fact we know." Dr. Suric put in. "It was committed at a quarter past one this morning. Everything points to that."

"Incorrect. Not _everything_." Plormot countered, then relented. "Certainly, a good amount of evidence supports this view.

"We have three possibilities:

"The first, is that the murder was indeed committed at a quarter past one. This is supported by the betazoid maid to Princess Nehn, Miss Tehf Toloe. It also agrees with Dr. Suric's estimations.

"The second possibility is that the crime was committed later and the evidence of the watch was deliberately faked.

"Finally, the third possibility is that the crime took place earlier, and the watch was also deliberately altered." He paused. Everyone gave a nod to prompt him. He continued:

"Accepting possibility one, that the murder took place at 1.15 in the morning, means we accept not only its supporting evidence, but also other details that arise from it. If the crime took place at 1.15, the murderer cannot have left the Orion Express, which therefore gives rise to the question: Where did he go? And who is he?

"We must delve deeper still into the evidence. We first hear of the existence of this man, the small man with a womanish voice, from the Orion man Zraevetsol. He says Parisi told him of this person and employed him to watch out for the assassin. There is no _evidence_ to support this. No corroborating documents, contract of service or the like. We have only Zraevetsol's word for it. And to question Zraevetsol himself – is he who he pretends to be? In the employ of a New York-based detective agency?

"It is astounding, this case!" Plormot took a moment to grandly gesture to his companions. "In this case, we have none of the resources of investigators. We cannot verify the identities, employers and histories of any of these people. We have," he tossed a dismissive hand at the documents before them. "Pitiful cards with pictures and names and other things written in them.

"We must therefore rely solely on deduction, on reason. That, to me, makes the matter so fascinating. There is to be no routine work in this case. No footwork. No, this case has been stripped down to a matter of intellect. I ask the question of whether we can accept Zraevetsol's account of himself. I have determined that, yes, we can accept his word."

"You are relying on intuition?" Dr. Suric asked.

Plormot nodded.

Dr. Suric hastened a warning:

"Intuition is a biochemically driven process which creates looping sets of parameters which our brains use to heuristically, _erroneously_ , produce decisions and answers that _feel_ good and grounded. They are biologically, scientifically driven, but not scientifically sound."

"Not at all, I do not rely on intuition." Plormot jumped to clarify. "It is a matter of probabilities. Zraevetsol is traveling with false identification and false credentials – this would immediately make him a person to be suspected. The first thing the police will do when they arrive onboard would be to detain Zraevetsol, send comms to Federation space and discover Zraevetsol's deception. He is large, he is male, he is a large orion male, considered criminal by default in may parts of this quadrant.

"In the case of many of the passengers, the reality of our situation is that establishing their bona fides will not even be attempted, particularly due to a lack of evidence tying them to the crime, and their high stations of power in the quadrant. What local detective will want to risk the ire of Andoria, of Antar, of Earth and the United Federation of Planets when they try to detain and question their ambassadors, their royalty, their war heroes and those associated with the head prosecutor of Federate courts?

"But in Zraevetsol's case, it is simple. He is either who he says he is or he isn't. He is lowly enough that an investigator would detain him, would question him and go through the basic work of checking through his credentials. Zraevetsol is aware of his station, he is aware of automatic suspicion and would therefore be a fool to assume such a bold lie would last even a minute. And I do not take him to be a fool. Therefore, I have determined he tells the truth of who he is."

"You have struck him from suspicion?" Dr. Suric cocked his head. Douqh looked slightly disappointed.

"Not at all. You misunderstand me. For all I know, any Pinkerton detective might have his own private reasons to kill Parisi. No, I am saying we can most probably accept Zraevetsol's account of himself. And though there is nothing concrete to prove it, I am currently inclined also to believe he tells the truth of Parisi employing him. In fact," here, Plormot shifted into a more excitable mood.

"In fact, there is a form of corroboration for Zraevetsol's story, from an unlikely place. Miss Toloe. Her description of the man she saw in the Orion Express's crew uniform fits exactly. Is there more? _Yes_." Plormot took on a crowing tone.

"You may not have noticed it, but another corroborating statement supports Zraevetsol's story."

"What?"

"Both Lieutenant Keller and Wroe'bex Qozz mention that the purser passed their carriage. But my friends, _Bael Kehrno said he did not leave his seat except on those specified occasions_ , to answer calls of attendance. Why is this important? _None of his trips would have taken him down to the far end of the hall_. The far end, past Qozz's compartment door, where they were sitting and talking."

A pause while Plormot's companions digested the implication.

"Therefore, this story of the small man with a womanish voice, now dressed in a crew uniform, rests on the testimony, whether direct or indirect, of no less than four separate witnesses."

"If this small man was roaming the ship in a crew uniform, surely the purser, Kehrno, would have run into him? Seen him, and realized he was not a member of the crew?" Dr. Suric was rewarded with a smile from the egg-shaped detective.

"I believe it fits. When Bael arrived to Mrs. Valy'r's room, the lady spoke with him at the door and was seen by the maid. Miss Toloe went to the princess while Mrs. Valy'r insisted he enter and check the room for an intruder. During that time, Miss Toloe, was with the princess. When she returned to her own compartment, the purser was inside with Mrs. Valy'r."

Mr. Douqh looked ready to bubble over while Plormot and Dr. Suric discussed the movements of the prior night.

"Yes, yes, my friend," he broke in impatiently, patting Plormot. "I admire your caution and your meticulous process to advance a single step at a time. But, time is passing, and I think you have yet to touch upon this: We are all agreed that this person exists. Don't give me a reproving look, Hilus! The point remains – _where did he go?_ "

"You are wrong, my friend. You rush headlong without thinking. We cannot ask ourselves where he went until we have asked whether such a man really exists. If this man were to be an invention, a story, then he would be easy to make him disappear. So we must first establish that there truly is such a present person."

Mr. Douqh had nodded along and gestured to speed up Plormot's glacial pace.

"Good. Great. And having arrived at the fact that there is – excellent – where is he now?"

Plormot relented.

"Then there are only two answers to that. Either he is still hidden on the ship in an ingenious place, or else he is two people – I mean to say, that he is disguised as a passenger on the ship. In order for this to be true, he would need to be so well disguised that Evered would not recognize him."

Mr. Douqh had grown ever hopeful with Plormot's options, but his face fell again when he realized no one answered to that description.

"We must not forget about the mystery woman in the red robe, whom I saw myself," Plormot added. "So, we have two strangers traipsing around the ship with multiple witnesses, potentially two murderers."

Mr. Douqh looked ready to weep.

"This entire affair is incredible!" Douqh burst out. "As in, not credible. It cannot be!" He slumped. "And on the esteemed Orion Express, no less."

"Who is this woman?" Plormot pondered. "The description we have does not exclude everyone from possibility, since many on this ship may don a towel and robe and the pass for a woman from behind. Perhaps she is the very same person as our small man, having changed?

"But that begs the questions: Where is the crew uniform now? The other crew have accounted for theirs. And where is the red robe?"

"Aha!" Douqh sprang up, eager again. "We must search the passengers' luggage. We have something definite to use!"

Plormot also stood.

"I will make a prediction, in part to temper what we may find," Plormot said.

"You know where they are?"

"I have some suspicion."

"Where?"

"You will find the red robe in the possession of one of the men. You will find the uniform of the Orion Express crew in the possession of one of the women. I am thinking, Miss Tehf Toloe, specifically."

"Tehf Toloe? But surely-"

"Calm, my friend. It is not what you think. I believe finding the uniform and robe will not be an indication of guilt, but of convenience. If she is guilty, it _may_ be there. If she is innocent, however, I believe it certainly _will_ be."

They were interrupted by an excited chief engineer.

"I have found the murder weapon!"

It seemed the room was so breathless as to be explained by a loss of cabin pressure. Then, in a flurry, the three men followed the chief engineer from the dining mess, along the passenger quarters corridor, through several causeways and down a hatch.

In the ventral docking bay, sat the escape pod. Thus far, knowledge of it's recovery remained sequestered only to those in the docking bay at present.

The chief engineer rolled a cart laden with tools aside, where he had been taking stock of phal blockage. He had had sense not to enter the pod.

Initially, it had only been opened to verify no one was inside, but otherwise left alone while Plormot conducted his investigation. Plormot, for his part, was kicking himself for not examining it sooner. But instead of leading them inside,the engineer instead brought them to the pod's bow porthole. There, when they looked directly down, sat a knife, splotched with patches of rust.

"How can we be sure this is the weapon? What's wrong with it?" Douqh asked while peering at the rusty patches.

Dr. Suric briefly explained that the blood of humans feed their cells with red blood cells, aptly named, which turn red due to the iron in heme, the functional component of hemoglobin that binds oxygen. It's contrary to most sentient species, who use a variety of other compounds to bind and deliver necessary components to their cells. Iron is such an unusual…

He petered off when he realized the others in the docking bay had resumed peering at the knife through the porthole.

"Does this knife fit with the wounds exhibited in Parisi?" Plormot asked. The doctor swiped at some of the remaining particles of phal at the glass with his sleeve and squinted. He nodded.

"I would need to take a couple of measurements to give a more definitive response, but from it's dimensions and the blood that oxidizes red, I estimate it is consistent with this crime."

"Well, now." Plormot paced the docking bay. He needed to move a bit to warm himself from the docking bay's cool temperature. He stopped in his tracks and stood. The others waited. He straightened.

"Well, now." He repeated. "Shall we?" He lead the group back to the dining mess room.

"What have you deduced, Hilus?" Douqh finally demanded. "Have you gleaned anything new to shed light on this matter?"

The chief engineer, who had been about to leave, paused near the door to listen for the famed detective's genius.

"Not at all," Plormot responded jovially. "It seems a sensible thing to do, no? Once the crime is committed, toss the knife into the escape pod so it cannot point to anyone aboard the vessel. Although…" It was his turn to trail off. "Launching it poses new questions, new problems…" He shook himself. "Regardless, we have been waylaid. To the passengers' luggage."


	22. The Evidence of the Passengers' Luggage

"Regardless," Plormot said, "we have been waylaid. To the passengers' luggage."

"Pardon," Dr. Suric interjected once the chief engineer had departed to tend once more to the escape pod's exterior maintenance. "But, why are we searching passenger luggage without first searching the escape pod? Isn't it possible the uniform or the robe could have been dumped there just as well?"

"Possible, yes," Plormot allowed. "It is possible. But I still maintain my prediction. The robe will be discovered in the luggage of one of the male passengers, and the purser's uniform will be found in the possession of one of the female passengers. If I am wrong, I will reexamine things as they stand. Come, let us not waste time."

They began with Zraevetsol's compartment, and intended to work their way along the section. He was not surprised, and greeted them with an affable air. When the purpose of the visit was made clear to him, he nodded approvingly.

"I've been wondering why you haven't gotten 'round to it sooner. Here's my key to the case just there. I'll unlock it and then you can have at it." He reached up, got the case down and obliged them. Despite being based in the Sol system, he didn't use the analog key and lock mechanism Earth and everyone in the Sol system seemed to keep wanting to use – it was magnetically activated.

The contents were examined, and they found what might be considered a concerning amount of hard liquors from in and around the Nivaluz region.

"Ah," Douqh started. His eyes darted around to the others and to the door. It was immediately clear he felt caught between his professional obligation to check into the legality of such an amount of alcohol crossing galactic borders without customs forms being filed, and his desire to have a crime solved aboard one of his ships without raising issues with galactic borders.

"Ahem," Douqh tried again. "Perhaps I shouldn't be here for this part."

"Nonsense," Plormot interjected. "Our only aim is to catch a killer. And judging by the looks of this stash, I imagine our friend here, Zraevetsol, will ensure a lesser amount will remain by the time he reaches his next port." Zraevetsol caught on and winked.

"I'll get working on it right away," he answered with a healthy humor as he reached for one of the bottles of Antaran schnapps.

"Perhaps at the conclusion of the investigation," Plormot amended hastily. "I may need to ask you further questions, so perhaps you could hold off for the moment?" Zraevetsol smiled and again winked before settling himself back into his seat.

Plormot got to task gently removing the liquors from Zraevetsol's case so he could better rifle through the other contents. He carried conversation as he worked.

"You are originally from the Belt, yes?"

"That's right."

"Dielgev Station, I recall. It is, I am aware, a trying place to live, particularly for the young." Zraevetsol shrugged.

"It was all I knew. It was home."

"But then you left?" A polite nod. "What made you leave your home?"

Zraevetsol pointed to a small catch in his case that would have otherwise gone unnoticed.

"You've missed a spot. There's a hidden compartment just there. Mind you, there are some work-related documents in there, so discretion is key." Plormot obediently slid the catch aside and a false lining dropped to reveal a collection of data chips and Pinkerton-branded gadgets to aid in his work. As Plormot further examined the gadget collection, now more out of interest than any suspicion, Zraevetsol sighed and answered Plormot's unanswered question.

"I left because I wanted to get out. I was nearing adulthood and it was only a matter of time before I'd be forced to make a choice. So I took my chances and snuck aboard a freighter headed anywhere. I'd meant to make it as far as Andorian space – the Andorians I'd met at Dielgev Station all proclaimed to value justice and strength, two things I wanted." He gave a quiet laugh.

"I didn't make it to Andorian space. The crew found me in their hold and were about to dump me at the next stop, where the only outcome would have been my repatriation into Orion space, when this … non-grey man stepped forward."

"Non-grey?"

"Well, there weren't too many humans out in Orion space at that time. Still aren't, actually. But, even fewer back then. Anyway, I couldn't figure out if this guy was yellow, or pink or beige in color. He seemed to be a dull, in-between shade. Turns out he was human. Can you believe they describe his general ethnic group as white? I'm still convinced humans are all slightly colorblind.

"Well, this not-grey man steps forward and said since I was just a kid that we should at least try to find my parents." He shook his head at the naivete.

"Once I told them where I was trying to go, he tried to pay the captain to cover my fare to get me to Andoria. Of course, the captain wanted no part of it. It would mean all kinds of paperwork and delays in his itinerary. And Andoria was already overwhelmed with processing Andorian refugees who were returning after some Klingon expansion, so even if the captain agreed, it might all be for nothing. So this human turned to me and asked me whether I wanted to try for the Sol system.

"Not that I knew anything about it. But I wasn't exactly flush with options. I'd only ever heard of the place once or twice, and always derisively. It was a backwater pit as far as I was concerned, but it was better than where I was coming from, so I agreed.

"What I didn't know was that Earth was making inroads with Axanar, Andoria and several other players, so it hadn't really been a backwater for a while." He stopped talking sent a look of consideration towards the Antaran schnapps.

"It seems you found a home," Izu Douqh said. His voice had taken on a thicker, throaty quality. Plormot looked over to find Douqh was looking at the orion man with new eyes. It seemed Douqh's prior prejudices were finally, truly, beginning to ebb. "Come, come, if I may." Douqh strode forward, grabbed two tumblers and took the liberty of opening the Antaran schnapps and poured himself and Zraevetsol a generous share each.

"It couldn't have been easy," Plormot fished, making sure to continue rooting around in Zraevetsol's case. "Orions have had a trying reputation in many corners of the quadrant, including the Sol system." Zraevetsol nodded absently.

"No, it wasn't easy. But it wasn't exactly hard, either. There was the xenophobia, but that was nothing new. But they insisted I get what they considered to be a _proper_ education, and made it a mandatory part of my immigration process."

"Was it hard?" Douqh had taken up the questioning like a natural, so enamored with Zraevetsol's tale that he hardly noticed when he tried to pour a second round, spilling some of the spirit onto the table. Zraevetsol absently mopped it up.

"Academically, sure, I guess. I was in a new education system – hell, I was in an education system period. But it wasn't so bad. I made friends. I was placed with home-stay families until I came of age. And it wasn't like I was the first alien to arrive."

"Ah," Plormot interjected. "Companionship is the balm to much hardship, is it not? And the Xindi attack would have been right around your early years in the Sol system … it couldn't have been easy."

"As I say, I made friends. And I was a citizen of Earth by that point, and it would later be updated to Federation membership, once everything was ratified."

"I imagine meeting others fleeing the fallout from the Xindi War would have felt like meeting an old friend," Plormot said while casually seating himself with the others. "After the Xoisk-Fhaxtu Border Skirmishes of my youth, I found much comfort in meeting others with differing backgrounds but similar stories. For Earth, so many Xindi arrived after it was over. I can only imagine what a relief it would be to relate to some sympathetic arboreal or primate."

Zraevetsol turned away to peer out at the phal and a nearby star for a minute. His glass sat, still mostly full.

"Perhaps you're right, Mr. Plormot." He said. "But with all the post-war suspicion, I guess every planet feels most at home with those they see as familiar."

He blinked as though the back-lit phal had dazzled his eyes.

"Wow, that's bright," he remarked. "Say, gentlemen, this business has been dragging on and getting on my nerves – all this sitting around and not doing anything. After this is all settled and done with, I'll be glad to reach atmosphere and get on to _doing_ something."

"You exhibit the true restless human spirit," Douqh said warmly. Plormot wondered whether his estimations of the Orion man had changed permanently. They called for Bael to come and reorder Zraevetsol's belongings. As they left, Bael was straightening out Zraevetsol's clothes, companionably quiet while Zraevetsol reached for another tumbler. They moved to the next compartment.

Lieutenant Keller was sitting in a corner, reading from a pad and flicking through screens.

Plormot explained their purpose, and the lieutenant made no comment. He didn't have keys to hand over, but rose and tapped in the code to unlock the clasps.

"This is all you bring?"

"The rest of my kit was sent by Federation lines, per regulation."

Like most military men, the lieutenant was a neat packer. The examination took only a few minutes. With nothing else to keep them, they filed out into the corridor again.

The next room was occupied by Princess Nehn. When they knocked, her deep voice bid them to enter. Mr. Douqh took the liberty of becoming their spokesman this this light. He used all deferential conjugations and was polite as ever as he explained what they intended. She listened, impassive, and then nodded.

"My maid has the bulk of my luggage in her compartment." Bael was summoned and sent for her.

In the meantime:

"Does your maid always carry your luggage, Madame?"

"Of course. There are occasions where this is not feasible, but otherwise, it is normal."

"You trust her, then?"

"Yes. I do not employ any whom I do not trust."

"Hm, trust. Such deep trust is a rare thing to find in a companion of a different class, hailing from a different sector. It is more typical for the nobility of Antar to employ Xindi, and sometimess Xoisk, help, is it not?"

Her dark, intelligent eyes fixed upon his face.

"What exactly are you implying, sir?"

"Me? Nothing, Madame."

"But of course you are." She continued on without bothering to corner Plormot on his lie. "You think, like many, that I should have employed, as is traditional, a Xoisk girl or a primate Xindi to attend to my service." It wasn't a question.

"It would be the more traditional thing, Madame."

She shook her head.

"Toloe is loyal." She lingered on the word. "Loyalty is priceless."

The aging betazoid woman had arrived, Bael in tow, carrying the extra case.

The great princess stood and went into the hall to make room for the others to open and search her luggage. In Antaran, she spoke to Tehf Toloe, instructing her to open the luggage and aid them in their search. Plormot remained in the hallway with her, where she watched the phall clumping together on one of the nacelles. She gave him an odd smile.

"You do not stay in there to see what my bags hide?"

"Madame Princess, it is a formality, nothing more."

"Truly?"

"For you, yes."

"Yet I have told you already. I knew, loved and admired Lillian Aldana. I loved her daughter, Erika Hernandez. You think I wouldn't soil my hands by killing such a lowly beast as that man, Parisi?"

Plormot didn't answer, but she continued.

"Do you know what consumed my thoughts during the search for Daisy? I watched Erika go mad with grief before pulling herself together so she could fulfill her duties to the Columbia. I watched her fall to pieces again and again, each time building back up so she could be strong. Do you know what I ached to do? Had it been within my power, I would have ordered this man be stricken to death and have his remains dumped into the nearest asteroid field. That was how things were done when I was young."

Still, Plormot did not speak, merely drinking in her words.

"You have not said anything, Mr. Plormot. What are you thinking?"

He looked at her steadily, now without any kowtowing deference.

"I think, Princess, that your strength is in your character, but not your body."

She gazed down at her arms, wasted of muscle and with creaking joints. The grey hands laden with large and colorful jewels. It was likely her hands hadn't lifted or carried anything heavier than a teacup in years.

"That is true, I'm afraid. I have none of my old strength in me anymore." Abruptly, she turned back to her room, where the maid was busy packing up her cases and bags. She cut off Mr. Douqh's apologies, saying: "Enough, no need for apologies, sir. A murder has been committed. That is all there is to it."

The next two doors were the adjoining rooms of the Andorian couple. Douqh stopped short.

"This may be awkward," he said, giving Plormot a pleading look. "This couple, they have diplomatic passports. Their baggage is exempt from searches."

"From customs, yes. But a murder is different."

"A murder is _worse_!" Douqh kept his voice low while his ire grew. "This couple cannot be caught up in a murder scandal. _I_ cannot be caught up in a murder scandal! Neither can this ship!"

"Calm yourself, dear friend, the Count and Countess will be reasonable. The Princess Nehn was ever so accommodating for us."

" _She_ is of a branch of royalty that is so secure as to assure a certain lack of repercussion should it turn out to be her! _They_ are both members of Andoria's noble class _and_ the darlings of Andoria's diplomatic corps! Even if they agree to a search of their baggage, there is currently no evidence to point to them. Therefore, Andoria would see such an act as a baseless and uncouth invasion of privacy!"

"All will be well, now come, we waste time."

Upon knocking, the Count's deep voice bid them enter. Their joined rooms rivaled Princess Nehn's for luxury.

The Count was sitting in the corner near the door reading the news from a pad. He was flicking through the articles with quick, lazy fingers. Plormot remembered the latest news he could have received would be out of date by now.

The Countess was curled up in the opposite corner near the porthole, wrapped in her robe she had described to him earlier. Orange, with white and purple floral designs all over it. There was a pillow squashed between her head, shoulders and the porthole. It seemed she had allowed herself to doze as she looked out.

The newcomers quickly made their respectful greetings and gave explanation for their arrival. To Plormot's pleasure, the Count made no excuse or protest other than to turn to his wife and ask:

"So long as you have no reservations, Talla?"

She shook her head, so they got to it.

Contrary to his actions with the Antaran princess, Plormot took an active role in unpacking the couple's belongings. He preempted any awkward silence by delivering a running stream of narration of what he found and how very fashionable this was, or how that thing proclaimed such a stylish innocence. The Count ignored him and the Countess did not reply to his observations.

She seemed rather bored by the whole process, and remained curled up in her corner, staring dreamily out through the porthole while the men searched her luggage. Her large, orb-like eyes reflected the particulate matter swirling in the void inches from her face.

Plormot found their luggage rather bereft of anything notable. Talla Kyrth's toiletry bag contained an expensive cream filled with anti-aging ingredients, though she was hardly old enough to need such a product, several packets of adhesive patches designed to deliver a deeper and more consistent night's sleep than a hypospray, and a few hypospray cartridges with sedatives. Plormot was careful not to comment on the redundancy of multiple methods of inducing sleep. Finding nothing more, they withdrew.

Mrs. Valy'r's compartment came next, and they had barely described their mission when she ushered them in and gave a breathless recounting of the night before to them as they went through her luggage. Upon trying to take their leave, she insisted on showing them pictures of her daughter, as plain and moody-looking as ever, and revealing grandchildren.

"My daughter's children! Aren't they cunning? Why, my daughter says..."

They skipped the next two compartments, as they were those of the dead man and of Plormot's own.

The next one was the shared berth, occupied by Hannah Lee, who was reviewing her pad, and Finta, who had been sleeping and woke with a start at their arrival.

Plormot repeated his spiel. The denobulan seemed typically nervous and agitated and the human seemed calmly indifferent. Both entered the codes or handed over the keys to their luggage without hesitation.

"I wonder," Plormot ventured to the denobulan," whether you might attend to the good Mrs. Valy'r. She had quite the shock last night, you may have heard. She is currently recuperating, but I think she is of the type who does best when they have someone to talk to. Perhaps if someone of your disposition could lend a sensitive hand of support…?"

The good woman was instantly sympathetic and immediately rose from her berth and put on her shoes. She left to commiserate with the poor risian woman. She must be in terrible turmoil, since her separation from her daughter. Once she had bustled off, Plormot took the liberty of examining her possessions.

He could see both women were traveling light, but the denobulan's single, small case contained a small number of items in the extreme. The religious sect to which she belonged, to Plormot's knowledge, was not defined by extreme asceticism, but perhaps he would need to read up on them once the phal cleared.

Miss Lee had switched off her pad and put it down. She was watching Plormot. As he lifted down her case, she asked:

"Why did you send her away, Mr. Plormot?"

"I, Miss? To tend to the Risian lady, or course. She's had a terrible shock."

Miss Lee's face was unimpressed. To be fair, Mrs. Valy'r seemed to revel in the development rather than feel any visceral sense of horror, and Plormot sensed between them a tacit understanding on this fact. Further, Miss Lee's dark, unyielding eyes fixed themselves on Dr. Suric, who stood in the corner. It underlined her point that Plormot did not send the practicing doctor to tend to a woman in 'shock' but instead the other traveler in her compartment.

"A pretext." She phrased it as a statement rather than giving Plormot any wiggle room to try to pretend at a misunderstanding. He may as well try, anyway:

"I don't understand you, Miss."

"You understand me very well, sir." She smiled. "You wanted to get me alone."

"You are putting words into my mouth, dear girl."

If she felt any annoyance at the phrase 'dear girl,' which many humans found to be patronizing, she didn't address it.

"No, I don't think so. I don't think you'd allow anyone to put words into your mouth, let alone ideas into your head. You already have ideas, isn't that right?"

"Miss, in Xoisk, we have a proverb-"

"{Those who accuse others, accuse themselves.} Is that what you were going to say? It's a common enough proverb in a number of languages."

Another, more charismatic person, would have forgone the comments of it being a common proverb. A more charismatic person would have completed his thought for him and delivered it with some sense of friendly triumph. If only this woman had a greater sense of joy, her cultured disposition would be irresistible. Instead, he felt he was conversing with a sentient machine.

"You have a keen sense for observation, Miss, and common sense." She was similarly unimpressed with his compliments and smiled in return, but was not distracted.

"And you seem to think I knew something of this murder – a murder of a man I've never met before."

"You are imagining things, Miss."

The look he received in return was professionally gracious, but showed her waning patience with his denials.

"No, I'm not imaging things. But it seems to me that a lot of time is wasted by not addressing the point right away. {Beating about the bush} is an English phrase that denotes how time is wasted when one doesn't come to the point."

"And you do not like to waste time." Plormot agreed, finally giving up his pretense. "No, you like to come straight to the point. You are direct and prefer efficient, scientific procedures. Have you always been that way?" The question partly annoyed her – yet another tangential question! – and partly threw her for its perceived irrelevance.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, have you always been so composed when faced with adverse situations?" To his surprise, a genuine smile flashed across her face before subsiding.

"No. It's something I've learned to value."

"Learned to? From whom?" She shrugged, lightly frowning at the questions.

"My family, I suppose. My teachers, professors. Supervisors, colleagues and the like."

"You must have had very good teachers, then. In English, you would say, a very good { _mentor_ }? To be as adept as you are at maintaining focus under stress. As I mentioned earlier, I would go so far as to say you are often quite Vulcan in your disposition."

If he was hoping for a definitive reaction, he found none. She remained largely impassive, if perhaps slightly depressed at having been trapped into discussion with him.

"You strike me as very well traveled, Miss Lee. I can see you getting on with some vulcan academic quite swimmingly. Have you ever run into them during your travels?"

"On occasion." It seemed Lee had finally wearied of his abstract and personal questions. He correctly sensed she was close to checking out of the discussion entirely.

"Very well. I will dispense with the meandering method and get to, as you say, the point." Plormot took the opportunity to take the other seat. "I will ask you the meaning of certain words, Miss, that I overheard on the journey from Sy'xenia, when the Taurus Express had a stopover at the station on Ahuok." Plormot watched as the human's head cocked to one side, showing her renewed attention.

"I had gotten off the ship to breathe a bit of atmosphere before our next leg of the journey when I heard two voices. Yours and that of the Lieutenant's, I heard them as I paced the platform. You said to him: 'Not now. When it's all over. When it's done.' Words very close to that. What did you mean by those words, Miss?"

"You think I meant murder?" Her voice was soft and quiet.

"I am the one who is asking you, Miss."

She sighed, getting – as humans said – lost in thought. It seemed she, too, was just as capable of following wandering lines of thought as any other. Then she roused herself and retook possession of herself.

"Those words had meaning, Mr. Plormot, but they're private. I can only give you my word of honor that I had never met this man Evered in my life until boarding this vessel."

"So you refuse to explain those words?"

"Yes, if you prefer to put it that way, then I refuse. They had to do with – a decision I had made."

"A decision?"

"Yes. On whether to undertake a task or not."

"A task that is now ended?"

"What do you mean?"

"It is ended, is it not?"

"Why would you assume so?" Behind him, Plormot could sense, rather than hear, Dr. Suric and Mr. Douqh shifting uncomfortably.

"Listen, Miss Lee. I will outline another incident for you. There was a delay to the Taurus Express on the day we were to reach St'aldor. You were very agitated, Miss. I have classified you in my mind as someone calm and self-controlled. You lost that calm."

"I did not want to miss my connection."

"So you say. So you said, at the time. But, the Orion Express leaves St'aldor daily. The only exceptions are certain holidays and the season of Wyveghkk, which isn't for another six years. Even if you had missed the connection it would only have been a matter a single day's delay."

For the first time, Miss Lee seemed to show signs of a deeper something. Not simple annoyance. Plormot estimated her sentiments were closer to a feeling of affront. Perhaps an indignation from being questioned by someone audacious enough to be simultaneously pedantic and ignorant.

"I have a connection to make in Iser. I have scheduled appointments waiting for me, and one delay can lead to others, causing an increasingly exponential delay."

"Ah, it is like that? You are the punctual type, and do not wish to risk delay out of principle?"

"If you wish to put it that way, yes."

"And yet, it is curious. On this vessel, on the Orion, we again have a delay. This time, more serious, since there is no possibility of sending word of your delay, where issues might be mitigated. How do you say it?" Plormot paused as he tried to remember the Federate term for it. "The word where one uses a radio across long distances …?"

"The DX?"

"Ah, yes. It is the word for long distance radio communication in Federate space, is it not?"

"Not originally. DX used to be a human term for amateur radio hobbyists to trade radio communications long distance, but it bled into Starfleet, and later Federate, jargon. It's less common in Vulcan and Antaran regions."

"I see. But the jargon used in somewhat more official lanes of Starfleet and the Federation is simply radiograph, isn't it?"

"Comms," she corrected. "As you say, it is an inconvenience not to be able to send word ahead."

"And yet, this time, your manner is quite different. You no longer display a sense of urgency. You are calm. It was not so aboard the Taurus."

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, though the rest of her face remained frozen.

"You have no answer, Miss?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear a question."

"The explanation of your change of attitude, Miss."

Her head cocked to the side again.

"Attitudes change. It seems to me you're making rather a large fuss over a change of attitude. Regardless," she seemed to reset, regaining some slipped control.

"Iser is the end of the line for the Orion Express, and is firmly in Federate space. From there, there is an abundance of travel options going every which way. Once I made it aboard the Orion, I was no longer worried about a significant detriment to my travel plans."

This woman had an answer for everything, it seemed. Still, Plormot decided to make another attempt.

"Still," Plormot began. Again, he saw that veiled indignation flare up in her.

"Still, your reaction at the delay aboard the Taurus. I noticed a more physical reaction from you. I believe it is unusual for human physiology to have uneven pupils when faced with simple stressors like travel issues. I also observed you to be physically off-balance, and you had to hold the bulkhead to keep on your feet..."

He trailed and then stopped himself.

Lee's dark, inscrutable eyes were looking – truly looking, into him.

Reevaluating him.

For the first time, Lee made Plormot feel just how human she could be. He had mentally gotten into the habit of classifying her as vulcan in nature, and he was reminded just what a mistake that could be.

It wasn't so much that she glared at him, or made any specific expression. It reminded him instead of his dinner at the Tokatlian Hotel. And of his breakfast aboard the Taurus Express.

For a moment – just a moment – Evered's gaze had swept over him. And he'd been filled with a prey species's instinctive revulsion and horror at being hunted. Evered – no, Parisi – had truly been a beastly man. Looking back, now knowing his true identity and his past deeds, Plormot was not relieved. Instead, the memory served to underline a distinct sense of panic at having brushed so near danger.

And at breakfast, the upright Lieutenant Keller's eyes had swept the room as he sat with Lee. Plormot had not felt the same malevolence, from Keller. Again, during his interview with Keller, his impudence had earned him a jarring look from Keller. Instead of malevolence, he felt something more contained, so tightly controlled. It was as though the man had, at some point in his past, been just as ignoble as Evered, and had been reigned in only through unforgiving discipline. Keller's look had set Plormot at ease, once he'd moved on, having determined no threat.

Now, Lee. Lee held eye contact with Plormot, and again felt he was being assessed. Perhaps it was just his impression, since human eyes were set closer together than most.

Close-set eyes were an adaptation by predator species which granted them incredible depth perception, the better to measure up their prey, or perhaps an adversary they intended to eliminate. He almost feared to think what her internal verdict would be. Would her assessment determine him to be more trouble than he was worth?

His memories and internal thoughts flurried through his mind all in a matter of a few seconds.

He plunged ahead again:

"Your two reactions simply seem very different. The second would indicate a calm and stoic philosophy. The first would indicate to me one of two things. One would be that you are more emotional than you pretend. And the other would indicate some form of neurological imbalance, triggered by stress."

No response. Again, that look of assessment.

"No response, Miss Lee?"

"What is your specific question, Mr. Plormot?"

"Well, to narrow down these options for me, do you consider yourself to be the calm, controlled type, or the emotional type?"

"Both, I suppose. Humans are rarely so one-dimensional."

"Allow me to eliminate the third possibility, then, at least. Do you have any neurological irregularities, Miss Lee?"

"That is no concern of yours, Mr. Plormot." Firm. He spread his hands in a gesture of goodwill.

"It is like that with detectives like myself. I expect behavior to be consistent. My training does not allow for changes of mood.

"You know Lieutenant Keller well, Miss?"

Plormot thought he saw some shift within her. He liked to think she was relieved by the change of subject.

"I met Lieutenant Keller for the first time a few days ago."

"Do you have any reason to suspect that he may have known this man, Evered?"

Lee shook her head.

"No, he didn't."

"Why are you so sure?"

"By the way he spoke."

"And yet, Miss, he is a strong and healthy human male from Earth, as is the victim. He has training in combat and it is plain in his mannerisms that his quite capable of any feat he decides to take up. He is of an upright character that would not forget the crimes of the victim. His alibi is provided by a malleable young man who I dare say has already gained a respect for Lieutenant Keller.

"I do not see Lieutenant Keller asking Mr. Qozz for an alibi, but I do see Mr. Qozz providing one of his own accord. Our young Mr. Qozz admits his father was involved in the Archer Affair, and the least he could do is give our lieutenant an alibi."

Plormot watched her narrowly, but she remained dispassionate.

"Nonsense. It's absurd. Lieutenant Keller is the last man in the sector who would get mixed up in a crime like this. Especially a crime like this – it's rather theatrical, to stab someone an unnecessary number of times."

She was so sound, so reasonable, that Plormot was inclined to agree with her.

"I must remind you that you do not know him very well, Miss Lee." She shrugged.

"I know the type well enough."

"You still refuse to tell me the meaning of those words: 'When it is done?'" He kept his voice gentle and nonjudgmental, but her response was now cold.

"I have nothing more to say."

"It does not matter," Hilus Plormot responded. "I will find out."

The visiting men stood and left the compartment, the door sliding shut behind them.

"Was that wise?" Izu Douqh asked, taking his friend at the arm. "You have put her on guard, and through her, you have put the Lieutenant on his guard as well."

"If you wish to find the hidden orb, you must shake the whaff. If the orb is there, it dislodges itself and is revealed. That is all I have done." Plormot's analogy centered around a Xoisk children's game. It delivered a message similar to an Earth phrase of flushing a hare from hiding by sending forth a canine.

They entered the compartment of Tehf Toloe. She stood in respectful readiness, her face unemotional. Plormot quickly shuffled through her smaller case at the foot of the bed. Everything was in order. She lifted down the larger case from it's shelf and stepped back. He stepped forward and opened Miss Toloe's case.

_Sitting atop her other belongings was a bunched up Agate Incorporated uniform, complete with the Orion Express vessel's shoulder patch._

Seeing the uniform shoved into her case, the betazoid woman rippled through with surprise and despair.

"Oh!" She suddenly sat. "That isn't mine. I didn't put it here. I haven't even opened it since I left St'aldor! You must believe me that it isn't mine!" Her pleading face latched onto Plormot's. Suddenly, self-recrimination took over. "I should have double-checked my things!" She berated herself. "I often check and double-check everything I can to ensure everything is in order! It's my fault it wasn't discovered until now-"

Plormot gently patted her arm.

"Do not worry. We believe you. Calm yourself." She looked at him doubtfully. He assured her:

"I am as sure you did not wear this uniform as I am sure that you are as organized as the best administrator. See? You are a good administrator, are you not?"

The grateful woman smiled in spite of herself, though the stress in her face was still plain.

"Yes, indeed. All of my supervisors have said so. I –"

She stopped, her mouth open, looking frightened all over again.

"Hush, calm yourself," Plormot soothed her. "I assure you, I suspected something like this would transpire, and I have already arrived at an explanation.

"This man, the man you bumped into in the Orion Express uniform. He was coming out of the dead man's compartment. He collides with you, which is bad luck for him. He would have hoped to have no witnesses. What can he do? He must get rid of the uniform. It is no longer a disguise for him, but a liability.

"There is the phal, which works to unravel his plans. Where can he hide the uniform? All of the compartments are full. He realizes you have just come from yours. He opens it to find it is empty. He slips in, stuffs it into a case on the shelf and knows it may be a while before it is discovered. It is unlikely to be discovered that night and indeed, it is only now that we have found it, and only because of your collision in the hall."

Plormot held up the uniform's jacket in front of him. Slipping his hand into the pockets, he came upon an Orion Express passkey.

"This would explain how he was able to pass through locked doors," Mr. Douqh breathed. "Locked or not, this man could easily get through any of the doors he wanted."

"Is that true?" Plormot pressed. "Any of the doors?"

Douqh took from his pocket a device closely resembling a slotted tricorder. He took the passkey from Plormot and inserted it into the device. Reading the screen, he nodded to himself.

"It seems to be a duplicate of a standard purser's card. It would grant access to any part of the passenger and crew quarters. It also gives the normal purser privileges to the bridge, engineering or other areas, but only if they are unlocked. This passkey would not permit an override if these areas are locked from the inside. But the passenger quarters, this card would certainly work."

"Hm," Plormot said.

"It does fit," Mr. Douqh continued. "You remember, Bael said that when Mrs. Valy'r had him enter her room to check for an intruder, he saw the communicating door to Evered's room was locked. It would explain why Bael was so confused and thought she was dreaming."

"It would seem," Dr. Suric finally jumped in. "We have solved the issue of how this man passed into areas deemed impossible."

"But not," Plormot countered, "how this person obtained such a copy. Agate Incorporated prides herself as a company offering more than luxury travel. Basic security would be expected, no?" He ignored Douqh's injured look and continued:

"We have found the uniform. Now, we are missing only the scarlet robe."

Dr. Suric frowned.

"The last two compartments are occupied by men."

They had entered the hall at this point, leaving Miss Toloe to recollect herself.

Wroe'bex Qozz was open and congenial in opening his luggage for them.

"I'm glad you've finally gotten around to it," he said with smile. "It's just that I feel like I'm naturally the most suspicious person on the ship, given my father and everything. The only thing left to find is a will from Evered saying he's left me all his money, and I'm sure that would tie things up quite nicely."

Mr. Douqh shot a suspicious look to Qozz, who rushed to cover himself.

"I'm only joking," he laughed, albeit slightly nervous towards Douqh. "He would never have left me a cent more than I was owed. He was stingy like that. He only kept me around because he said he was too old to learn new languages and he didn't trust translation applications. He's right about that, you know, programmed translation applications aren't universally reliable, yet. Vulcan-Denobulan is fairly accurate, I hear, but aside from them … well, anyway.

"And it isn't like I'm a linguist, anyway. I speak Common and Axanarian, of course, and I'm passable with the pleasantries of Antaran, but I'm pretty good with the most basic of phrases in a number of languages besides."

He seemed to chatter on, nervous.

Plormot straightened up from Qozz's belongings.

"Nothing," he said. "No last will and testament to speak of."

"That's a relief, to say the least," Qozz sighed.

They moved on to the final compartment.

Plormot took extra care to thoroughly pick through the luggage of both the antaran steward and the big human shuttle salesman, but came up with no result. Having found nothing, they left and stood in the hallway.

"What now?" Dr. Suric asked.

"We will return to the dining mess," Plormot answered. "We know all we can know from their luggage. We have collected accounts from the passengers, and evidence from their baggage, and observed everything with our eyes. It is now up to us to make deductions with our minds."

This whole affair was such a vexing one, and Plormot's mind cast back to his compartment, where he had the remainder of a bottle of vadu waiting for him. He would fetch it and join his friends in the dinning compartment.

"I will join you in a moment. We have many questions to answer. Who wore the red robe? Where is it now? If only we knew. There is something about this case, some thing that we are missing! I have the uncomfortable feeling that it is difficult, but only out of design. Excuse me, I will go get my water."

He returned to his compartment. There, on his little table, was the bottle. He might even indulge in a threnado tablet, which he could dissolve into the water and give himself an extra boost of antioxidants to help clear his mind. He never traveled without them.

Plormot got down his case and snapped the lock open.

He rocked back on his heels and stared down.

_Neatly folded on the top of the case was a long, scarlet robe, gleaming with gold trim._

"So it is like that, a challenge." He murmured. It was a bold, defiant play.

"Very well."


	23. Which of them?

Which of them? Forget the threnado tablet, Plormot needed to find some answers to unclutter this affair.

Mr. Douqh and Dr. Suri were seated together, talking, when Plormot entered the dining room. Douqh looked depressed as he half-heartedly stirred the tea in his cup.

"If you solve this case, Hilus," Izu Douqh told his friend as he sat down, "I will truly believe in miracles."

"You are worried about this case?" Douqh shot his friend an incredulous look.

"Of _course_ it worries me! It can't decide whether I trust a single so-called fact in this case."

"I am equally baffled," the doctor put in.

Plormot nodded, thinking deeply.

"To be frank," Douqh continued, "I cannot see what you could possibly do next that would help."

"No? Hmm." Plormot responded, still deep in thought.

He set down his bottle of vadu and drew from his pocket his little case of threnado tablets. He shook one out and dropped it into the water where it immediately billowed out into a yellowy-orange cloud of particles that sank to the bottom and sides. When they hit the bottom and sides of the bottle, bubbles formed and created a chemical reaction that closely resemble carbonation. Rather, it was an observable phenomenon of microbial colonies activating with the moisture.

Without preamble, Plormot described to his companions how and where he had discovered the red robe. The other two were internally itching to bluster themselves into a state of uproar, but were outwardly stunned into silence.

"It seems to me," Plormot continued, watching his water fizz and spray, "that our very predicament, and our confusion over this case, is a particular point of interest.

"Here we are, cut off from all of the normal resources that would underpin a 'proper' investigation. Are these people who we interview telling the truth or lying? We have no way to verify anything. It turns this investigation into an exercise of thought."

"That's nice," Douqh said. He was not at all genuine, and not at all hiding it. "But what do we do about it?"

"I told you. We have collected statements from the passengers and observed them ourselves."

"Fat load of good it does us! Their statements tell us nothing!"

"I disagree, Izu. The evidence of the passengers grants us several points to ponder."

"Well," Mr. Douqh huffed, "I don't see what those might be."

"That is because you did not listen. Well, at least, you did not hear."

"Then tell me, what have I missed?"

"Here is one example. The first interview we conducted, the one with the young Mr. Qozz. He mentioned something which to him, might mean nothing but to me, it felt rather significant.

He told us the two of them traveled about, and that Mr. Evered was hampered by knowing no languages. Evered, and Parisi, spoke only English and some Common."

Plormot looked at the other two meaningfully.

"You still don't see it?" He gently clicked his tongue in disappointment. "I'll spell it out, then. _Mr. Evered spoke no Axanarian._ Yet, when the purser came to answer the bell last night, it was a voice speaking Axanarian that told it was a mistake and that he was not meant to be called. Based on what Bael Kehrno and myself both recall, it was perfectly idiomatic phrasing. Mr. Evered wouldn't have had the fluency, even the proficiency, to say something so idiomatic. { _I was mistaken,_ } he said. Not: { _I make a mistake,_ } or some variation which would be a more typical phrasing by new or leaning speakers."

"That's such a great point!" Suric jumped in excitedly. "We should have seen that! I remember the way you stressed those words to us when we interviewed Qozz. It makes sense to me, now, why you have been so reluctant to rely on the evidence of the broken watch. At twenty or so minutes to one, Evered was already dead-"

"And it was his _murderer_ speaking." Mr. Douqh finished, having finally wrapped his mind around the significance. "A murderer who is proficient, if not fluent, in Axanarian."

But Plormot raised his hands to waylay them.

"Let us slow down. And let us not assume more than we truly know. It is safe, I think, to say at that time, twenty-three minutes to one, _some other person_ was in Evered's room and that person can speak it fluently."

"That explains why you suspect the cold Miss Lee, and not the intimidating Lieutenant Keller," Dr. Suric surmised. "She could easily respond such, while Lieutenant Keller stumbles through everything, except perhaps Common."

"His pronunciation in Common still leaves something to be desired," Mr. Douqh pointed out. But again, Plormot shook his head and raised his hands.

"Again, the pair of you jump to conclusions. My suspicion or lack of suspicion of those two is entirely unrelated to what languages I think they can or cannot speak, but more so in what they spoke to each other that day. Now, we become sidetracked:

We have no actual evidence that Evered was dead at that time. In fact, we will need to wait until the proper authorities arrive and a proper autopsy may be performed before determining time of death. Even then, the more time that passes, the less precise it will be. Certainly, the body's exposure to void-temperatures, however brief, could cause further issue."

"There was the yell that you heard. It woke you up." Suric offered.

"Yes, that is true."

"In a way," Douqh spoke thoughtfully, "this realization of the speaker doesn't change things very much. You heard someone moving around next door. That person was not Evered, and was washing blood from his hands, clearing up after the crime, and destroying the data chip and anything else that pointed to the Archer case. Then he waited until all was still and, when he thinks it is safe and the coast is clear, he locks Evered's door to the hallway from the inside and passes through the communicating door into Mrs. Valy'r's compartment and leaves through her door.

"Nothing crucial has changed with our theory, with the exception that _Evered was killed about half an hour earlier_ , and the watch was changed to a quarter past one to create an alibi."

"Not an airtight alibi," Plormot was sure to point out. "The watch was set to 1.15, which is the exact time when the intruder would have actually left the scene of the crime."

"True," Dr. Suric said. "What, then, does the watch's time tell you?"

"If the watch hands were altered, and I do mean _if_ , then the time at which they were set must then have significance. The natural reaction would be to suspect anyone who had a reliable alibi during the time indicated, 1.15."

"Yes, yes," Dr. Suric prompted. "That is sound reasoning. And?"

"We must also pay attention to the time the intruder would have _entered_ the compartment. When did he have the opportunity to enter? Unless we assume the purser, Mr. Kehrno, is complicit, then there is only one time when he could have entered.

"During the time the Orion Express stopped at Nondinsi. After the ship left Nondinsi, the purser was sitting facing the corridor. Whereas a passenger would pay little to no attention to an Agate Inc. employee, the _one_ person who would notice an impostor would be the real purser. But during the stop at Nondinsi, the purser was, as is typical, out on the landing bay dock. The coast is clear."

"Which leaves us where we left off earlier," Mr. Douqh lamented. "It therefore _must_ be one of the passengers. Which of them?" Plormot smiled.

"Let us review, then. It will help us all refresh our memories." He proceeded to pull passports from his stack. "We will review each passenger with a particular eye to their motives, alibis, evidence and suspicious circumstances that surround them:

"The good axanarian, Mr. Wroe'bex Qozz. A Federate citizen. As for a motive, he admits it himself. One possibly derives from his father's association to the dead man's case. One can hardly believe his father's standing remained unscathed after the debacle. His alibi is from midnight to two in the morning. From midnight to 1.30 is vouched for by Lieutenant Keller, while the purser, Bael Kehrno, has vouched for his whereabouts from 1.15 to two in the morning. We have no evidence against him. There are no suspicious circumstances, either." Plormot paused to see if either of his two companions had anything to add. It seemed they were content to attend his lecture in silence. He set the passport aside.

"The purser, Bael Kehrno, a resident of Axanarian space, originally from Xindi space. No motive. His alibi is from midnight to two, as seen and heard by myself from Evered's compartment at 12.37. From 1 to 1.16, two other pursers have vouched for his whereabouts, they were discussing phal reports. There is no evidence against him. As for suspicious circumstances, there is the matter of the Agate Inc. uniform, with the Orion Express patches. That, however, seems add to his favor in my mind, since it seems to have been intended to throw suspicion on him." With nothing from his two companions, Plormot set the card aside and drew the next passport.

"Strophyr Zahn, steward to the dead man. For motive, there could conceivably be one, as he worked for the deceased. Some form of friction we do not know of. As for his alibi, he is covered from midnight to two by the shuttle salesman, Stills. There is no evidence, nor suspicious circumstances against him, other than that he fits certain physical measurements. He is the right height and size and could have worn the crew uniform we found. On the other hand, I do not think he has strayed far from Antaran regions to spend extended time in Federate space. I think it unlikely that he speaks Axanarian well enough to use colloquialisms and the like."

"Here," Plormot drew the next passport. "Mrs. Valy'r. Federate citizen, a risian woman. No motive, but no alibi from midnight to two, either. She tells a story of a man in her compartment that is substantiated by both Zraevetsol's account and the lady's maid, Toloe."

"Finta, the denobulan. No motive. Her alibi from midnight to two is vouched for by Hannah Lee. I have nothing else to say on her for the moment, other than it appears she was the last person to see Evered alive."

"Princess Nehn. Antaran royalty. Her motive is clear. She was intimate friends to the Archer family, and became like a sister to Captain Hernandez's mother, the actress of renown through Federate space. Her alibi, from midnight to two, is vouched for by the purser and Miss Toloe. There is no evidence against her.

"Count Kyrth. He is both Andorian nobility and one of their treasured diplomats. No motive. His alibi from midnight to two is vouched for by the purser, but this does not include the window of time from one to 1.15."

"Countess Kyrth. Andorian nobility and the diplomat's wife. No motive, and her alibi from midnight to two is given by her husband. The alibi is that she took her usual sedative and slept. I myself found ample supplies of sedatives in her luggage, which supports her regular use of them."

"Lieutenant Keller. Federate citizen. Specifically, an Earth subject serving with Starfleet. No motive. Spoke with Qozz from midnight to 1.30. He then went to his own compartment and did not leave it, which gives the rest of his alibi from the purser. There's no evidence against him.

"Zraevetsol. Originally from Orion space, Dielgev Station, specifically. No known motive. His alibi from midnight to two is that he did not leave his compartment, substantiated by both the purser and Qozz. No evidence against him, and no suspicious circumstances.

"Declan Stills. Earth citizen, but travels quite a bit. No known motive. His alibi is vouched for by our surly Mr. Zahn. There is no evidence against him.

"Hannah Lee. Earth citizen. No motive. Alibi vouched for by Finta. As for evidence against her, there is none, except for the suspicion I have for her refusal to explain her words during a Taurus Express stop.

"Tehf Toloe. Betazoid citizen, originally, but in longtime service to Princess Nehn. No motive. Her alibi is vouched for by the purser and her mistress. She was awoken by the purser at roughly 12.38 and went to her mistress.

"Now, we will note, my friends," Plormot glanced up from her passport. "That the alibis given from one passenger to another is supported by one another and by the purser as well, since everyone is in general agreement that no one entered or left Mr. Evered's compartment between the hours of midnight and one in the morning, when the purser himself went to confer with other crew members, and from 1.15 to two."

"So we have reviewed and reviewed what we think we know, and what we don't," Douqh summed up. "It isn't very helpful."

"These things are a process, my friend," Plormot smiled at his companions.

"We cannot forget, we need to ask ourselves several questions. Who wore the red robe? Who wore the crew uniform? Why do the hands of the watch point to 1.15? Was the murder committed then? If not, was it committed earlier? Later? Can we be sure that Evered really was stabbed by more than one person? What other explanation of his wounds are there? So you see, we have much work ahead of us, yet."

Plormot couldn't tell if Douqh and Dr. Suric's expressions were those of intimidation at the task ahead of them, or of incredulity at having to perform such an exhausting exercise that might result in nothing new. Perhaps a mixture of both.

"Alright," Dr. Suric ventured. "Let's start with that first question you mentioned. Who wore the red robe? By process of elimination, I doubt it could have been Princess Nehn."

"That's right," Plormot agreed. "I saw the back of her myself, and while it was not necessarily a woman in the robe with the towel piled on her head, I am certain I would have noticed if it were a shorter, wider frame like that of the Princess's."

Douqh was not impressed.

"That's nice," he deadpanned. "But we can't very well eliminate everyone else by that logic. Maybe – _maybe_ – Miss Lee, because she is rather small and witnesses including yourself, Hilus, would have noted the shorter stature. And maybe several of the men. Zraevetsol is a giant green man, Mr. Stills is a giant black man, Count Kyrth is a giant blue man! Stuffing them in a robe and towel might be enough to cover their pigments, but they are tall enough to warrant mentioning their height." He stopped short for a moment.

"Except for the towel on top, which throws all of that out the window. Miss Lee wouldn't be so short, anymore, and the men wouldn't seem so tall, either. But even if we summarily eliminate them, and Princess Nehn, that still leaves us with six passengers who could conceivably have worn the robe!"

Plormot's eyes twinkled at his friend's outburst.

"I will add to your troubles, Izu."

Douqh groaned. Plormot sipped his water and continued:

"We have the same problem with the uniform. Again, I think we can safely eliminate the Antaran princess from the possibility of donning the uniform. It seems it would be a tight fit for those larger men you mention, but not impossible. If that is what they had to work with, who would notice shorter sleeves or short hems at the floor when one isn't looking for an impostor? Those men, I think, are unlikely candidates to wear the uniform, but possible, nonetheless.

"As for Lieutenant Keller, he would fit into the uniform. The fit might be awkward in places, rather loose, perhaps, but he is a man of uniforms, is he not? He would wear it swimmingly. Miss Lee, also, could wear the uniform without drawing attention. So what if it is baggy in places and the cuffs are long? It isn't too uncommon to see crewmen roll a cuff at the bottom now and then. The same goes for several of the women. Miss Toloe, I think, would find the chest a bit tight, but she could manage it, as could Finta, assuming she had the courage to take it up. In fact, even Mr. Zahn, though it would be rather tight around his middle, would find the uniform an overall fit."

Dr. Suric remained quiet and sent a sideways look to Douqh, who had long since buried his face into his hands. Plormot decided it was time to redirect his friends.

"We'll pass along to the watch. Why do the hands point to 1.15?"

Douqh had finally peeled his hands away from his face and gave a half-hearted attempt to answer.

"Either the watch truly broke at that time, or else it was set to that time after being broken?"

"Precisely. It means either we can feel a sense of surety in everyone's alibis, or few, if any, of them."

"But many of their alibis extend beyond the window of time from midnight to two in the morning," Douqh pointed out. "The purser says Zraevetsol never left his compartment. The purser says it was all quiet from midnight to two.

"Even if Bael has it all wrong, even if he has somehow hallucinated everyone's alibis, they have substantiated each other's. Mr. Stills swears Zahn couldn't have left the compartment that night, because he'd have to use the door, and opening the door would have shined the hallway's light into Stills's face. And Zahn is certain Stills didn't leave the compartment, either, because he was restless that night and couldn't properly sleep.

"True," Dr. Suric jumped in, exasperated. "It is the same for Finta and Miss Lee. Miss Lee has the berth above Finta's, and the light would have shone into her face as well, should Finta have opened the door during the night. And Finta swears she would have heard Miss Lee come down from the berth above, because she is a light sleeper, and one of the ladder rungs rattles when stepped on.

"Miss Toloe swears for the princess's alibi, and Bael's account gives Miss Toloe her alibi, which also matches what the princess says. It is all knitted together!"

"Yes, yes," Plormot tried to reign in the spiral of despair the two others were setting up to take. "But back to the watch. Why 1.15?" A long silence ensued while Dr. Suric simply sat, and Douqh tried to wrangle out some new answer.

"I think I have it," Douqh spoke at last. "It was _not_ the uniformed murderer who tampered with the watch. It would have been the person we called the second murderer, the left-handed person, the woman in the red robe. She, or he, since it could have been a man in that robe, arrives after the uniformed murderer left. She moves the hands of the watch to make an alibi for herself." Dr. Suric smiled and for a moment, the two shared the feeling of pieces falling into place at last.

"So," Plormot carried on. "She stabbed him in the dark, not realizing he was stabbed, bloodied and dead already, but somehow knew or realized he had a watch in his pajama pocket, took it out, put back the hands blindly and broke it." His tone was nonjudgmental, but his skeptical disdain for Douqh's theory still stung.

"Do you have a better explanation that fits what we see?" He demanded.

"No, not at the moment." Plormot admitted, patting Douqh's shoulder. "All the same, we still have yet to appreciate the question of the time of 1.15. Was the murder committed then? I answer, no."

"I agree there," Douqh answered. "Was it earlier, then? But what do you say, doctor?"

"Yes, but it also could have been later. Physiologically, human bodies display certain symptoms as time passes, but the delay in finding the body, my lack of proper equipment, the body's exposure to void temperatures, and the delay before we reach Pordd, when proper equipment may be used… it all means we may never reliably say when the murder took place. At least, based on decomposition.

"We would need to rely on other methods to confidently give a specific time of death. As it is, the window of time, disregarding any witness accounts, could be as broad as ten or eleven at night, through to three or three-thirty in the morning. Given that I could not even take the body's organ temperatures, and we do not know when the escape pod was triggered, exposing the body to void temperatures, it's all very vague."

"So you agree with Izu?" Plormot prompted the doctor to give a more succinct answer.

"Yes. I think the Uniformed Murderer came earlier than 1.15 and the Red Robe Murderer came after 1.15."

"Could we not determine who aboard is left handed?" Douqh asked the doctor, who shook his head.

"Though I'm certain the good Mr. Plormot here could easily determine who is left or right-handed, I'm not so certain it would matter. I recently attended a seminar on the comparative neurological habits of bilaterally symmetrical sentient species." Plormot inwardly groaned. Of _course_ the doctor had recently attended a seminar on the comparative neurological habits of bilaterally symmetrical sentient species.

"Andorians, Antarans, Axanarians, and Denobulans can be ambidextrous. It is exceedingly uncommon, but the distribution between left and right-handed people is balanced enough that it would neither eliminate nor suspect any of them based on their dominant hand. Betazoids are rarely ambidextrous, and are mostly right-handed. However, most of the stab wounds in the victim's body were right-handed, so Miss Toloe is similarly both a suspect and just as likely innocent on that account."

"And humans?" Plormot leaned forward. But the doctor shook his head as he came to them.

"Humans are rarely ambidextrous in all activities. It can happen, but it isn't common and most will just pick a dominant hand for an activity. Most are right-handed, but a significant number are left-handed as well. Some may be right-handed for certain activities, such as writing or using certain tools, but be inconsistent with other actions. Further, depending on where a human grows up, how they are educated, they may deviate from even that pattern.

"Culturally, many humans will eat using a knife in their right hand, and a utensil called a {fork} in the other. But this is trained into humans, who might otherwise use the {fork} in their right hand because it is considered to be a more useful or common eating implement. There is an activity they discussed in the seminar, where they ride a mammal called a {horse.}

"Generally, the reigns are held in both hands, one for each. But in the event they need to transfer both to one hand, it is the left. New riders are taught to hold the reigns in their left hand, which keeps their right hand free for balance and anything else. Historically, this would have been to accommodate the majority of riders, who were and are right-handed. However, though today such a custom isn't considered so important, left-handed riders still hold the reigns in their left hands. Anyway, whether it is eating or stabbing, or riding or writing or {golfing}, there is much inconsistency with how humans go about choosing which hand to use."

Plormot had sat back during Dr. Suric's speech and had absently nodded along while he waited for the doctor to wrap up.

"It seems we have jumped into discussing our final questions. Including whether Mr. Evered was truly stabbed by more than one person. To reconfirm, doctor," Plormot asked. "Is it possible for Princess Nehn to have committed this crime? She seems rather frail, and her arms do not carry strength."

"It is difficult. I am inclined to say no, it would require a stronger arm to stab so deeply in places so dense and tough with bone and muscle. However, she strikes me as woman of extreme will, and I have seen many otherwise frail people accomplish incredible feats based on that."

Plormot nodded solemnly to the doctor's diagnosis. "I agree with you, doctor."

"So if the frail princess could have done it," Douqh said slowly. "Does that mean a single person would have been responsible for all of the wounds?" But the doctor shook his head.

"To the question of whether we can be sure if Evered was stabbed by more than one person, I would say yes.

"In my medical opinion, there can be _no other_ explanation for those wounds. To suggest that one man struck first with strength and violence, only to strike again, weakly and then switch hands and repeat, it is a lot to ask me to believe. And then there is the matter of the interval.

"Several of the wounds bled profusely, including one or two of the weaker ones, which means he was very much alive then. But some of the others bled very little, meaning he was close to death, and these wounds still include both strong and weak wounds.

"Finally, there was a particularly feeble stab wound, more of a glancing scratch really, and some deeper holes, that were inflicted after death, for they did not bleed at all. In all, at least – at least, mind you – ten or twelve minutes would need to pass from start to finish, to account for the victim's death before continuing to attack. In my mind, I believe the attack took place over the course of at least fifteen minutes or so."

During Dr. Suric's speech on the neurological habits of bilaterally symmetrical sentient species, Plormot had allowed his mind to wander a bit. However, he listened with rapt attention while the doctor outlined the precise and sound reasoning behind the timeline of the attack.

"So you think that the explanation of two murderers does make sense? One who came first, and another who finished the job?"

"What other explanation can there be?"

Plormot stared straight ahead for a moment or two.

"Indeed." He leaned back again. "Well, now. We have thrashed it all out. The facts are before us. The passengers have all sat across from us here, one by one, and given us their accounts. We know all that can be known for the moment." He gave a bright nod to Douqh.

"As you often tease me, Izu, it is time for me to sit back and think out the truth. Well, there's nothing more for it but to do. Let us all close our eyes and _think_.

"One or more of those passengers killed Evered. _Which of them?_ "


	24. Hilus Plormot Sits Back and Thinks

It was quiet for over a quarter of an hour before anyone spoke.

Mr. Douqh and Dr. Suric did their best to try to consider the case afresh, having now reviewed the evidence available to them. They attempted to sort out and disentangle the mess of conflicting particulars and find a fitting solution.

Douqh's train of thought largely ran thusly:

'How are we to sit and think our way out of this? I know Hilus has done it many times before, but those times, he presumably had the ability to verify alibis and identities and the like, giving him a better idea of who lied and so forth.

'He obviously thinks that small human girl is mixed up in all this. I cannot help but think how unlikely that is. I cannot imagine her stabbing a man, no matter how hateful, that many times. If there is one thing about her I am sure of, it is that she would be consistent about it. She would have overdosed him on something or other and been done with it.

'It seems the orion man, Zraevetsol couldn't have done it. I deeply wanted it to be him, but he's really grown on me, I must say. I don't picture him doing it, either.

'It also sounds as though the big human, Stills, couldn't have done it. Seems the steward is sure about it. Pity, because I could definitely see him doing it, no matter how nice he seems.

'I wonder when we'll finally be done with all this. A rescue vessel from Pordd _must_ be on its way to find us by now. They're so slow about it in this region… its so frustrating sometimes. And I don't even want to think about how the Pordd authorities will handle all this if we don't have it solved. They'll make a grand affair out of all of this. They'll want to talk to the news, they'll leak sordid details to the press and bookings aboard the Orion Express will plummet. Agate Incorporated will never hear the end of it..."

From there, Douqh's thoughts meandered through the old stomping ground of whether the big green orion man Zraevetsol's nature had fooled him, and whether it could have been the formidable Stills. His two favorite culprits to the crime.

Dr. Suric leaned back and let his mind wander. The Daquvah's thoughts were decidedly unhelpful for the case:

'He's such a strange little man. What sort of name is Hilus Plorot, anyway? I can't figure out whether he's a genius or a crank. Will he solve this case? Even if he doesn't, can it be solved at this point? It's impossible, I can see no way around it. It's all to confusing. Everyone seems to be lying, but even then that doesn't help us.

'If they're all lying, it's just as confusing as if they're all telling the truth.

'Those wounds baffle me. I don't understand. If he'd had the normal phase pistol burns, we might be able to take samples and determine the specific frequencies and hopefully narrow it down to a certain model, if not a specific pistol. But a knife? What is this, the fifty-fourth century? Such a backwards place, Earth. The entire Sol system is a basket case just waiting to be quarantined and studied...'

From there, Dr. Suric's thoughts ran into other, distracted matters.

Hilus Plormot sat very still.

One might have thought he was asleep.

Then, after perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes of stillness, his brows began to slowly furrow and raise and lower. He began to murmur:

"But, why not? After all, why not? And if so, well then it would explain so much. Everything."

His eyes opened.

"I have thought. And you, my friends?"

Both men started, having lost themselves in their own internal monologues. They both took on expressions of guilty embarrassment, and admitted having come to no conclusion. Plormot nodded amiably at their failure to produce a sound result.

"Then, I shall go ahead and begin. I have reviewed the facts in my mind, and I shall share just a couple of my thoughts with you.

"I have found an explanation – it is still shrouded in uncertainty, mind you – but it is an explanation that would account for all the facts as we know them. It is a fantastic explanation, and I cannot be sure that it is correct or true. To find out for sure, I will need to undertake certain tests.

"I would like to first mention certain points which stick out to me as important:

"Mr. Douqh mentioned to me earlier, the unique setting we find ourselves in. He commented on the fact that we are surrounded by people of all classes, of all ages, of all nationalities. This is something brought about by travel, yes, but this season, it is quite rare. This vessel was booked solid, remember. But then we must remember the passenger, the Mr. Harris, who failed to turn up in time.

"Then there are some other points of issue. The whereabouts of Captain Hernandez's mother, Lillian Aldana, the identity and whereabouts of the Archer's friend who placed his daughter with them. Does he live? Of course, the whereabouts of the semi-adopted daughter herself, the operational methods of Zraevetsol, the suggestion by Qozz that Evered himself destroyed the data chip we found." He finished off his list and looked to his friends. "Do they suggest anything to you, these issues?"

"Nothing to me," Douqh said flatly.

"Nor me," said the Daquvah doctor.

"I will be accused, perhaps, of jumping to conclusions," Plormot said primly. "But, I am inclined to suspect Countess Kyrth of being more than meets the eye in this matter."

"What?" Douqh burst out. "Never mind the fact that it _can't_ be her – she is a diplomat's wife! She is Andorian nobility! She is far to young to be involved – It _couldn't_ be her! She takes sedatives in the void. You yourself found them!"

Plormot politely left silent the observation that Douqh was decidedly biased in the matter, due to his interest in the Orion Express's well-being.

"Let's look at it from a different angle, shall we? How was this murder intended to appear to everybody? Do not forget that the phal has upset all of the murderer's original plans. Let us imagine, for a moment, that there is no phal, that the ship proceeded on it's normal course. What would have happened?"

A beat while the two companions waited for the answer to be given to them.

"The murder would have been discovered, likely around the same time, but by then the Orion would have reached, say, Phixulis. Certainly, the Orion Express would have been very close to Federate space. Much of the same evidence would have been given to the Phixulian police, many of whom are educated and practice the same methods as in Federate territories. The threatening letters would have been produced by Mr. Qozz, Zraevetsol would have told his story, Mrs. Valy'r would have been just as eager to tell how a man passed through her compartment.

"I imagine the only one or two things would have been different. The man would have passed through Mrs. Valy'r's compartment just before one in the morning, and the Orion Express uniform would have been found stuffed into one of the hallway toilets."

"So, you mean?"

"I mean the murder was _planned to look like an outside job_. The assassin would have been assumed to have left the ship during it's stop at Pordd. Someone might have passed by a strange Agate Inc crew member in the hallway. The uniform would be left in a conspicuous place so as to clearly show just how the trick was done. No suspicion would have been attached to the passengers. That, my friends, was how this affair was intended to appear to the outside galaxy.

"But the phal that leaves the Orion dead in the void changes everything. Doubtless that is the reason the man remained in the compartment with the victim so long. He was waiting for the ship to arrive at Pordd. But at last he realized that the ship was not going to arrive. Different plans would have to be made. The murderer would now be _known_ to still be aboard."

"So they used the escape pod as a blind – to explain the murderer's escape." Dr. Suric breathed.

"Yes. And here, we have another example of the cosmos undoing best-laid plans. With the pod released into space, authorities would have eventually found it, with the knife inside. But they would not have found it until after the Orion docked at Pordd and after the authorities launched to search for it, and presumably after some delay, owing to the pod swirling around in the phal. By then, they would assume the assassin made good their escape with the help of an accomplice who picked them up, knowing the knife would not trace back to them. But the escape pod was sent drifting right back to the Orion, thereby scuttling an otherwise sound backup plan."

"Yes, yes," Douqh hurried along. "I see all that. But where does Countess Kyrth come into this?"

"I'm getting there by a somewhat meandering route. To begin with, we must realize that the threatening letters were a blind. A red fish, as a human like Evered might say. They might as well have been copied and pasted over from a cheaply written crime novel. They are not real. They are simply intended for the police.

"What we must ask ourselves, then, is whether these letters fooled Evered? On the face of it, I think not. His instructions to Zraevetsol indicate he was aware of a private enemy whom he knew well enough to have a description. That is, if we accept Zraevetsol's story as true.

"But Evered certainly received _one_ letter of a very different character. The letter that was largely destroyed, with mention of the Archer child. In case Evered had not yet realized sooner, this was to make absolutely certain he understood the purpose of the threats against his life. That letter, as evidenced by it's damage, was never intended to be found. The murderer's first care was to destroy it. This, then, was the second hitch in his plans. Data chips can be wiped, but the information on them can almost always be reconstructed unless one has ample time to conduct several consecutive wipes. Our murderer did not have this kind of time, so the only other way to erase it was by manual destruction, also a time consuming project."

"Why didn't they take it with them?" Dr. Suric asked.

"Because their goal was to be unattached to this crime. A murder is discovered, and a passenger is caught destroying a data chip? No, abandoning it was the smarter move, but for the drill. It's common for them to chatter and bounce if they're used on smooth surfaces, so it left just enough intact to be reconstructed. But this is all ancillary.

"That note being destroyed was a matter of premeditation. Who warns their victim ahead of time? No one who truly wants someone dead, let alone a professional, would ever do such a thing. And yet, threatening note aside, this murder bears signs of professionalism. This is a crime driven by revenge, then, because someone wanted the victim to feel the fear of being hunted. Who travels with a hand drill? It can only mean one thing. _There must be on this ship, someone so intimately connected with the Archer family that the discovery of that note would immediately direct suspicion on that person._

"Now we come to the end of my wandering point. The sweet countess and her husband provided only her diplomatic passport as proof of her identity. What person would offer that one, and not their original, personal passport? Two possibilities come to my mind. One might take this action if they wish to intimidate us into refraining from asking difficult questions. I do not see Countess Kyrth acting in such a manner, but I do indeed see her husband taking it up without a second thought. The other possible reason for providing only the diplomatic passport is if they want to conceal some manner of their identity. To my mind, her husband might prefer the first reason, but I think the Countess wishes to only be known as Countess Kyrth."

"What else would she be known as? I don't follow you." Douqh wallowed in mental agony.

"Her given name is Talla." Plormot said simply.

A beat.

"So?"

"So, if my memory serves me, the Archers agreed to a friend's request to take custody of their daughter."

"So? That's common enough. Such arrangements are unfortunate, but if a child's parents are sent to war or work for the war effort, of course they'd be placed somewhere else far from regions of conflict."

"Yes, that much is true. But such an arrangement was downright revolutionary at the time. I remember it made informal headlines by word of mouth. A famous and decorated Andorian war hero leaving his only child in the care of 'pinkskins,' as he famously called humans? Such a thing had never been done. And yet, it was. Countess Kyrth would be about the right age."

"You don't mean…?"

"Yes, I believe Countess Kyrth was previously known as Talla Shran, the daughter of Thy'lek Shran, a commander of the Andorian Imperial Guard."

"But how can you be so sure? Talla is such a common name for girls in her generation. How can you accuse us of jumping to conclusions when you yourself use such circuitous and unsound logic?"

Plormot gave a casual shrug.

"Why else would she hide her personal passport from us? If she is the Talla Shran who lived with the Archers, and I believe she is, then that's motive enough right there. Her mother had died when she was a very young child, perhaps as a baby. Her father was to be sent to yet another war. With no other living family, he elects to send her to the people he trusts most to safeguard her – a pinkskin family, of all people. He goes and, if I remember correctly, he dies.

"Now little Talla's only family is with the Archers. Jonathan Archer is like a second father to her, Erika Hernandez is the only mother she has ever known, or at least remembers. Daisy is a little sister to her. She even has two women who fill the role of grandparents to her, the great Lillian Aldana, and the imposing Princess Nehn."

"Come now," Douqh broke in. "Surely… But this is fantastic. Princess Nehn playing grandmother to her?"

"Why not? The princess and the actress were famously close friends. I see no reason why the princess would not follow suit with the Archer and Hernandez family by doting on her. She is beautiful now, but can you imagine what she must have been like as a child? So innocent, and sweet, and far too young to be left an orphan in a strange place.

"But back to the present, now. She has hidden who she was prior to marrying Count Kyrth. Why? I should think the answer is simple. Because it would cast suspicion on her. Her entire family was destroyed by this one man. That is ample motive."

"But she says she hadn't married the Count yet when he was posted on Earth. Her diplomatic passport supports this. There's nothing to suggest she has ever been there."

"Nothing? She speaks broken English, she exaggerates a foreign accent and an alien appearance. But I posit to you that she was the adopted daughter of the Archers and that she later married Count Kyrth when he was posted to San Francisco."

"But Princess Nehn says she married and stayed near the Sol region, nowhere near here."

"Whose name she cannot remember! I ask you, _is that really likely_? Princess Nehn loved Lillian Aldana she was an aunt of sorts to Captain Hernandez, and would have therefore been an astutely present grandmother figure to the young Daisy Archer and their foster daughter! And once the Archer Affair transpires, she simply, what? She loses track of the last vestige of her friends? Absurd. No, the very idea is absurd.

"I think we can safely say that Princess Nehn was lying. She knew Talla was on the ship, she had seen her. She realized at once, as soon as she heard who Evered really was, that Talla would be suspected. And so, when we question as to the other daughter, she promptly lies. She's vague, she cannot remember but she _thinks_ she married and has moved around in a general region far from here."

"This is fantastic, truly." Douqh lamented. To have a diplomat's wife pegged for such a sordid affair would do great damage to the Orion Express's reputation.

"There is more," Plormot continued. Douqh slumped further. "The Count himself gave part of it away. He noted that he and his wife played chess before going to bed. He said he thought it was from the Sol system – he couldn't very well lie which kind. We found the chess set in among his possessions. He mentioned his wife is teaching him. How might such a young Andorian girl struggle with English pronunciation and still play this game well enough to teach the rules to others?"

One of the attendants came through the door at the end and approached them. He addressed the dead-eyed Mr. Douqh.

"Shall we serve dinner sometime, sir? We've been holding it, but time gets on."

The three nodded and the attendant retreated and others entered to set the tables for dinner.


	25. The Identity of Countess Kyrth

Plormot shared a table with Mr. Douqh and the doctor.

The passengers assembled and sat scattered in their respective seats. Though no one had eaten in a long time, no one seemed to be hungry. Everyone was very subdued and even the gregarious Mrs. Valy'r was unnaturally quiet. Her usually shrill voice kept up a running, whispered commentary as she ate:

"I don't think I could eat a single bite," she would say before sampling a bit of everything. "Truly, I don't feel as though I can eat very much," she would say before digging into second helpings.

Dr. Suric kept quiet when he noticed Plormot catch one of the attendants by the sleeve and whisper into his ear. The Count and Countess were always served last, and there was a delay bringing out their bill. Consequently, the result was that the Count and Countess were the last left in the restaurant quarters.

When they finally received and paid their bill, they rose to leave. As they drew nearer to their table, Plormot sprang up and gabbled in English:

"Forgive me, Countess, but I believe I have recognized you."

"Pardon, sir?" The Count made a sudden movement, but Plormot ignored him. He kept his eyes fixed on the Countess's face.

"Having seen only your diplomatic passport, I did not immediately see it, and you are older now than you once were. But I am a fool. Of course it is you. I recognize you from a tabloid of admittedly ill-repute. You are Talla Shran, the daughter of Commander Shran and of the Archer family."

There was dead silence for a minute or two. Both the Count and Countess had gone stalk still, their antennae at full attention, and the Countess's pale blue face had blanched into an icier hue. Plormot began again in English, this time in a gentler tone:

"It is no use denying it. It is true, isn't it?"

The Count burst out in furious Axanarian:

"I _demand, sir_ , by what _right_ do you-"

His young wife interrupted him, putting her small hand on his shoulder.

"No, Dolru. Let me speak. It is useless to deny what he says. It will come out when we reach Pordd, anyway. We had better sit down and talk it out."

Her voice had changed. It was still just as rich in tone, but it had suddenly lost it's breathy, indecisive quality. It was, for the first time, a definitely unaccented, Americanized English voice. The Count seemed to deflate when he looked at her, and he obeyed her gesture. Once they settled into seats opposite Plormot, she continued:

"You are correct, sir. I am Talla Shran, the foster daughter to Captain Archer and Hernandez."

"You did not acquaint me with that fact this morning, Countess."

"No."

"In fact, all that you and your husband have told me is a string of lies." The Count built up to challenge Plormot, only to be waylaid by Talla again.

"Don't be angry, Dolru. Mr. Plormot has worded it brutally, but what he says is true."

"I am glad you admit it so freely. Will you tell me your reasons for your deception?"

"It was my idea, my doing entirely." The Count added.

"Surely, Mr. Plormot," Talla said. "Surely, you can guess my reason, our reason? This man who was killed is the man who murdered my baby sister. Who killed my mother, who broke my uncle's heart. The three people I had left and loved the most. They made up my home, my world!" Her voice had started off quietly, and grew to ring out at the end. Plormot was not surprised she had spent her formative years watching the quadrant's best actors performing feats of emotive arts.

"Of all the people on this ship, of all the people in the galaxy, I think only I would have had the best motive for killing him."

"And you did not kill him, Countess?"

"I swear to you, sir – and my husband knows this, and will also swear – that as much as I may have wanted to kill him, I never lifted a hand against that man."

"I, too, gentlemen." The Count added. "I give you my word of honor that last night, Talla never left her bed. She took a sedative exactly as I said. She is entirely innocent."

Plormot looked back and forth between them, then he shook his head.

"Your word of honor. And yet you took it upon yourself to deliberately hide your wife's identity?"

"You never asked," he responded simply. The Count was perhaps unduly young to be a diplomat, but he now openly displayed his skill in political maneuvering.

"And yet you knew it would be pertinent to the case." Plormot was not amused.

"Nevertheless, you never asked." Count Kyrth gave a small, self-deprecating smile. "I knew she was innocent, and I have no intention of having her put through some sham investigation just to prove what I already know. She never left our rooms last night.

"Consider my position. Do you think I could stand the thought of my wife dragged through a police case run by the Nivaluzian region police? She is innocent, but with her connection to the Archer family, she would have been immediately suspected. She would have been questioned every which way, arrested, perhaps. Yes, I lied by omission to you. But I will remain consistent on this fact: My wife never left our rooms last night."

Plormot considered the now earnest man across from him. He spoke with such forthright passion.

"I do not say that I disbelieve you, sir," Plormot said slowly. "Your family is, I know, a proud and ancient one. It would be a bitter thing for you to have your wife dragged into an unpleasant police case. I can sympathize with you there. But why carry on this charade once the case ran deeper?"

"Again, there was no charade," the Count answered. "A lie by omission, made easier because you didn't ask earlier."

"You have a very cool head about all of this," Plormot commented. "You have the makings of a fine criminal, Count. A great natural ingenuity and an apparent remorseless determination to mislead justice."

"Not mislead justice." The Count replied. "Justice had been done. I simply didn't want my wife to fall as collateral damage." Talla leaned in to end their back and forth.

"Mr. Plormot, he's explained to you how it was." Her American English pronunciation grew more pronounced. "I was scared – just scared – you understand. It was so awful, that time. And to have it all raked up again like that. And the possibility of being suspected and maybe thrown into prison. I was terrified, sir. Can't you understand at all?" Her deep, rich voice tugged at the soul. Plormot regarded her gravely.

"If I am to believe you, Countess – and I do not say that I won't believe you – then you must help me."

"Help you?"

"Yes. The reason for the murder lies in the past. In that tragedy which broke up your home and saddened your young life. Take me back into the past, so that I may find the link – the missing piece that fits the whole thing together."

"What can I tell you? They are all dead." She blinked her giant, orb-like eyes towards the phal. "All dead. Jonathan, Erika – and Daisy.

"She was so sweet, and so happy. She had this wonderful, curling hair. I wasn't used to human development at first, so I was confused when her hair turned from that pale, pale yellow into a darker blond. Then I found out her hair was likely to turn even darker, like her parents. The whole thing fascinated me, and beneath all her color-changing hair, she was always giggling and laughing. We were all just crazy about her."

"There were several other victims, as well."

"You mean Uncle Trip and Aunt T'Pol?" A fresh wave of grief passed over her face. "They died trying to arrest that man. Jon turned into a shadow of himself after that. That _man_ escaping was just the final straw."

"There was another victim. An indirect victim, you might say."

"You mean poor Zia? Yes, the police questioned her. They were convinced that she had something to do with it. Maybe she did, but if so, it would have only been an accident. She was about my age now, at the time, maybe younger. Eighteen? Nineteen? She was young and we were in upstate New York, Schenectady, so what worries did any of us have? Maybe she let slip something about Daisy's general schedule. Anyway, Zia was questioned nonstop by the police." She gave an involuntary shiver.

"She threw herself out of an airlock. As I understand it, they had decided to question her further at a station orbiting Earth. She was already horribly stressed and ashamed over it all. I suppose she couldn't see that it would ever end for her, so she decided to end it."

"What nationality was she, Countess?"

"She was Xindi. It made it all that much worse for her."

"What was her last name?"

"I – I don't know that I can remember it. I only ever called her Zia. She was such a fun, girl. In retrospect, she was very young to be taking employment so far from Xindi space. She seemed like such a cool, adventuresome grown up to me at the time."

"She was your and Daisy's au pair – a nanny, yes?"

"Yes, especially since Erika was pregnant again, Zia was needed even more."

"And Captain Archer's former colleague, Dr. Phlox, was her pediatrician?"

"I'm not sure whether it was official or not, but he certainly came by often enough. I think one of his wives may have been the pediatrician, actually, but I can't be sure."

"What was his wife's name? The pediatrician?"

"Feezal. She was also devoted to Daisy, and to Jon and Erika."

"Now, Madame, I want you to think carefully before you answer this question. Have you, since you were on this ship, seen anyone that you recognize?" She stared at him.

"I? No, I don't think so."

"What about Princess Nehn?"

"Oh, her! Well I know her, of course. I thought you meant anyone – anyone from – from that time."

The Count unobtrusively let his hand fall onto Talla's shoulder and he gently squeezed it.

"So I did. But think now, carefully. A few years have passed. So everyone from that time has also aged. Do you recognize anyone else? They might have altered their appearance, or aged more so than you might expect."

Talla was silent for a minute or two.

"No, there is no one."

"You were perhaps fifteen or sixteen towards the end, before the whole affair. Did you have no one to check into your studies? Anyone to help you advance your English and keep up your Andorian?"

"Why, yes. Uncle Jon's colleague."

"He hired her from Starfleet? How often did she check on your studies?"

"I don't know exactly what arrangement they had. I think they were friends and she wanted to help out. She would visit quite often. At first it was just whenever she could make it, but I suppose I wasn't progressing as much as she liked, so she started to come by all the time."

"She dropped by starting when?"

"I would have been around eight or nine when I first met her."

"What was her name?"

"Well," she hesitated. "It's been so long and I've tried to block out everything from that time. I-" She shut her eyes for a minute, deep in thought. Finally, she opened them, having come to an answer. "Hoshi Sato. She worked with Jon at Starfleet. And during the war."

"Describe her."

"She was rather tall. Quite loud, and really nice."

"Anything else?"

"What else can I say? She was my tutor. She taught me languages and helped me and Daisy with our subjects."

"You say she was tall. How tall were you then?" Talla smiled when she realized Plormot's point.

"Even for a human, you mean? Yes, she was big. She sort of took after the large-chested, motherly type."

"Young or old?"

"She seemed pretty old to me."

"Yes, but how old was she? How old was she in comparison to the Xindi au pair, Zia?"

"She would have been a bit older than Zia, I suppose. At least three or four years older? It's difficult to tell with her."

"And were there any other members of the household?"

"No, not really. But Jon and Erika were busy people, so it wasn't uncommon to have periods of higher traffic. Mostly, though, they tried to give me and Daisy a quieter life. I can't think of many closer than that."

"And you are certain, Countess, that you have recognized no one else on this ship?"

Her giant, orb-like eyes threatened to entrance any who stared too long.

"No one, sir."


	26. A Visit from the Antaran Princess

When the Count and Countess had departed, Plormot looked across at the other two.

"You see," Plormot said. "We make progress."

"Excellent work," Douqh said cordially. "I would never have dreamed of suspecting Count and Countess Kyrth, myself. I'll admit though, that it makes sense now. I suppose there's no doubt that she committed the crime. It's rather sad, really, given all that's happened to her.

"Still, her punishment will be a light one, whatever it may be. It's possible she will face none at all, given the extenuating circumstances. I can't imagine a magistrate or a jury who would convict her knowing all we know."

"You seem certain of her guilt."

"My dear Hilus. Surely there is no doubt? I thought you were simply reassuring them to smooth things over until we are released from this phal and the proper authorities take charge."

"So you don't believe the Count's statement – made on his word of honor – that his wife is innocent?"

"Hilus, of course! What is it with you and crisscrossing all over the place! First she's suspicious, but when she's revealed to have all that motive, then she's innocent?

"Besides, what else could her husband say? He adores her. He wants to save her. All he has to do is not offer up the truth unbidden – quite casual the way the upper classes do these things. Then, when they're caught, he simply lies. What could it be, other than a lie?"

"You know, I am getting the idea that he's telling the truth."

"No, no! What are you saying? That they boarded this very ship along with the man who destroyed her childhood and didn't have anything to do with his murder?"

"All I'm saying, dear Izu," Plormot amended. "Is that I think I believe him when he says his wife never left their rooms last night. Yes, he has lied to us without compunction, but when it comes down to it, out of all else in this matter, he values his wife. It is when he feels she is most at risk that he swears upon his honor. You may call it trivial, but I feel inclined to believe him."

Any further discussion was cut off when the door opened and none other than Princess Nehn entered. She came straight to them and all three men accordingly stood out of respect. She ignored the others and focused on Plormot.

"I believe, sir," she said. "That you have found out my lie."

"What lie is this?" Plormot asked. He found himself the object of the princess's immense scrutiny.

"My lie regarding my goddaughter. You asked after her whereabouts and I said I didn't know, because I had lost track of her. I knew full well that she was aboard this vessel with us."

"The Countess Kyrth."

She nodded.

"Yes."

"You did indeed lie, Princess. Why?"

"Because I knew how it would look. I was not about to let my last granddaughter be put through a new ordeal all over again."

"You are very dedicated, Princess."

"It takes no great dedication. Indeed, it is not about dedication. I have merely done what I think Lillian, my friend, and her guardians would want for her. Loyalty is what binds people together."

"You do not believe in doing your utmost to bring about justice?"

A sharp look from the old royal.

"But you are mistaken, sirs. In this case, justice _has_ been done."

If Plormot had any further questions, they were inconsequential to her. The great lady inclined her head, stood and left without a further word.

"So," Plormot spoke at last. "We have shaken the whaff, now we see the orb we have shaken loose."

"She is a terrible old lady!" Douqh exclaimed. "Who could have guessed her loyalty to that human family would run so deep as to try to cover for an andorian girl of no relation?"

"It's not so complicated, when one thinks on it," Plormot noted. He turned to the doctor. "Could she have murdered Evered?" The doctor considered briefly and, once again, shook his head.

"No. Those stabs – the ones that drove the knife deep and cut through muscle and broke through bones in places – never. Even if she were in a rage, someone so frail could not have delivered them."

"But the feebler ones? The shallower ones?"

"Yes, those are possible."

Meanwhile, Douqh was again pressing his palms into his eyes.

"Lies – so many lies. And again, lies. It amazes me, the number of lies we have had told to us today."

"There are still more to flush out," Plormot told him, rather cheerful.

"Truly?"

"I will be very disappointed if it turns out I am wrong."

"So much duplicity." Douqh groaned. "But you seem pleased." He grew reproachful.

"Lies give an advantage the truth cannot," Plormot told them, twinkling. "If someone tells the truth, that is all there is to it. If you need to find more, they may not have it to give you. But if they've lied, and if you confront them and their lie with the truth, they will usually admit it. Usually, they'll admit it out of surprise, often enough out of resignation. I have realized it is the only way to conduct this case.

"I select each passenger in turn. I consider them, and ask myself whether they have lied. If so, on what point do they specifically lie, and why do they lie? It begs the answer, if they are lying, it could only be for such a reason and on such a point.

"We have already successfully found out both a lie and a truth this way with Countess Kyrth. We will now focus the same method on the next passenger."

"What if your guess on their lie or the reason behind it is wrong?"

"Then we will have found at least one person who will be free of further suspicion."

"Mm, a process of elimination, then."

"Precisely."

"Who is next?"

"We are going to tackle the ever serious Lieutenant Keller."


	27. A Second Interview with Lieutenant Keller

Lieutenant Keller was clearly annoyed at having been summoned back to the restaurant quarters for a second time. His face wore a forbidding expression as he sat down.

"Well?" Was all he deigned to say.

"My apologies for troubling you for a second time," said Plormot. He tactfully tried to pretend as if he truly were apologetic for troubling him a second time. Inwardly, he felt a perverse sense of pleasure at irking the rigid man. "But there is still some information in your possession with which I think you will be able to help us."

"Really?"

"To begin with, you lied to me about knowing Jonathan Archer. You tried to give the impression your knowledge of him extended only as far as his fame." He paused ever so briefly for a reaction and got none. "In fact, you weren't any stranger of the sort. You served with him. You were one of his closest friends. One of the people he trusted most in this world. Why did you lie?"

"Why do you say I lied? Check my service record once we've done with this phal. You'll find no overlap between our service histories."

"So you did not kill Mr. Evered for revenge?"

"If I had, I should hardly be likely to tell you. But since you're obligated to ask, no, I didn't murder the man."

"Ah, well," Plormot sighed. "It is of no consequence." For once, the human's brows raised in surprise at the comment.

"Because, you see, I am more curious about you, than about Evered."

The human's entire person became more taut. He was a coil ready to spring.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, it's rather convenient, that, don't you think?" Plormot braved those flint-like eyes.

"What is?"

"You're a career Starfleet officer. You've clearly seen some amount of service in various sectors here and there. Captain Archer has crisscrossed all over the known quadrant, and beyond. You seem certain there will be absolutely no crossover between your histories. How is anyone so certain they haven't so much as shared a duty station, even briefly, with someone else?"

"You're fishing," Keller replied. His gaze raked over Plormot with the hardness of duranium. "You've gotten lost in all this and now you're trying to see what shakes loose."

"Me, sir?"

"Yes, you. It's a simple enough tactic. I'm a Starfleet officer, so was he, so we must know each other. Generalizations you state with an air of certainty.

"You hope I'll be shocked into admitting something more." He sat back. "You're right, of course. Starfleet is big, but it isn't that big. It's more than likely we share a few acquaintances. Even, as you say, a duty station here and there."

"Generalizations?"

"Yes."

"Allow me to be a little more specific, then. This leads me into the other issue with which you can help me."

Somehow, impossibly, he coiled even tighter.

"What I really wish to know regards something I overheard in Ahuok, while the Taurus Express was stopped for supplies. Miss Lee may have told you?"

He gave no reply. He simply waited.

"I overheard the pair of you in conversation. She said, 'Not now. When it's done. When it's behind us.' Do you know to what those words referred?"

"Yes." Plormot briefly waited for elaboration, but the man opposite was stalwart.

"What?"

"I refuse to answer that question, Mr. Plormot. I apologize." His apology was the emptiest Plormot had heard in a long time, but it was certainly clear enough.

"Why?"

His answer was stiff:

"I suggest you ask her for the meaning of those words."

"I have done so already."

"And she refused to tell you?"

"Yes."

"Then that's that. I won't tell you."

"You will not betray a woman's confidence?" Plormot's attempt to flatter the man earned him a sharp look.

"You can put it that way, if you like."

"Miss Lee told me that they referred to a private matter of her own."

"Then why not take her word for it?"

"Because Miss Lee is what one might call a highly suspicious character."

"Nonsense."

"It is not nonsense."

"Why are you asking after the meaning behind a fragment of a private conversation, then? Because you have yet to figure out that the murder case doesn't involve it. Therefore, it's nonsense. You have nothing against her."

Plormot had had enough of the man's smooth dismissals. He pounced:

"Nothing? Not the fact that she is traveling with a man who is himself traveling under an alias? That she travels with Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, a most esteemed member of Captain Archer's crew, who now disguises himself as some David Keller? Not the fact that this Hannah Lee is, in truth, also an alias? The fact that her name is Hoshi Sato, who served in Starfleet alongside both Archer and Reed? And the fact that she was a tutor to the Archer household at the time of the abduction of Daisy Archer?"

There was a minute's dead silence. The man across from him had frozen. Plormot tipped his head gently.

"You see," he said. "I know more than you would think. If Miss Lee – well, if Miss _Sato_ is innocent, why did she conceal that fact from me? Why is she carrying a fake passport?"

Eventually, the human managed to clear his throat.

"Aren't you possibly making a mistake?"

"I make no mistake. Why did Miss Sato lie to me?"

Inexplicably, the coil inexplicably slackened, the shoulders settled back and the lieutenant shrugged, somehow striking a relaxed pose.

"You had better ask her."

Plormot raised his voice and called for an attendant to fetch the human woman. The man nodded and left, leaving the four men sat in silence. Lieutenant Reed's face looked as though it had been fashioned out of duranium, rigid and impassive. The man returned.

"She is coming, sir." A moment or two later, she entered the restaurant quarters.


	28. The Identity of Hannah Lee

She walked in with defiance. Her head was thrown back. The sweep of her hair, still neatly coiled at the back of her head, and her posture struck a cord of strength. It reminded one of the prow of a ship, gallantly braving a storm at sea. Finally, she had dispensed with some of her unyielding stoicism. She was magnetic. In that moment, for the first time, Plormot saw her as beautiful.

Her eyes swept over Reed for a moment, but only a moment, before they locked onto him.

"You wished to see me?"

"Please sit. I wished to ask you, Miss, why you lied to us this morning?"

"Lied to you. When?"

"You lied about never having met Lieutenant Keller before, although I imagine you might view it as a matter of word play, given that this isn't Lieutenant Keller at all, but Malcolm Reed, your longtime colleague." Her eyes shot over to Reed for a split second before she reined them in and dragged them back to Plormot's face.

"You concealed the fact that, at the time of the Archer Affair, you were actually living at the house. You concealed the fact that you were Daisy Archer's tutor. You concealed the fact that your true name is Hoshi Sato, a longtime trusted officer to Jonathan Archer, and friend to the family." Plormot saw her briefly flinch at her name before recovering.

"Yes," she said. "That is true."

"So you admit it?"

"Certainly, since I can't very well hide it once the phal clears."

"I should thank the phal, then. You are at least honest and forthright now, Miss Sato."

"I don't see that there's anything else for me to be." She couldn't know this, but Plormot was reminded of earlier that morning, when he had noted to her that she was the only calm one. What had she said, then? 'What can one do.'

"Well, of course. Now, Miss Sato," Plormot hurried on, wary of squandering the progress he'd made. "What is the reason for these evasions?"

"There isn't any one reason."

"Enlighten me as to one of them for starters, then."

"It's a private matter." Plormot felt his patience slipping.

"Be that as it may, you must enlighten me."

She raised her dark eyes to meet his.

"How much do you know about starting over, Mr. Plormot? I've kept my identity private from you because I can't afford another setback in my career. If I were to be detained in connection with a murder case, if my name and my face were to be plastered all over the news, do you think just any place would take me on? To hire me?"

"I imagine they would, given your connections." That elicited a laugh from her. It was bitter.

"Connections? What connections? My captain is dead, along with the other senior officers. Dead people can't write your letters of reference, and pity points will only get you so far."

"Still, I do not see why someone of your background could not return, if no blame was attached to you." She shot him a look of distaste, as if it were a great task, having to explain something so simple to someone so simple.

"It isn't a matter of blame! It's publicity. So far, Mr. Plormot, I have succeeded in life. I started off terrified and naive. There was no way I'd go jetting off into space. But I'd been hailed as a genius and Jonathan always had the ability to convince me. In the end, he convinced me to 'try it out.' Eventually, I worked to build up a reputation to back it all up. I ended up enjoying it, actually." She trailed off suddenly, leaving a yawning silence. Plormot carefully watched as Keller – no, Reed – casually crossed his leg, bumping her foot. She jolted out of her confused distraction and refocused.

"Anyway, it hardly matters anymore. It's all gone." Plormot hadn't known she was capable of sounding sullen, but here she was, looking like a young teenager more than anything. Suddenly moody and slouching.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean..." she trailed again, seemingly lost again. "I mean I'm not the same anymore. I've been trying to get back to what I once had, but it's been looking more and more hopeless, as time goes by."

Silence stretched again until Reed shifted ever so slightly and muttered to her:

"He asked about blame."

Reminded of Plormot's prompt, she recollected herself and started again.

"It isn't a matter of blame. As I told you before, those words refer to something else. Something unrelated to what happened to Daisy."

"If not related to Daisy, then is it related to this crime?"

"No, no, not really..." Another awkward silence ensued while she tried to organize her thoughts. When she glanced to the phal swirling beyond the porthole, the light managed to illuminate her face just enough. Plormot saw that, again, her pupils had grown uneven. Plormot stole a look over to Reed. His posture showed attentive concern, but no surprise or confusion over her state.

"My question from earlier," Plormot started again, gently. "Regarding your neurological condition?" And like a whip, he was rewarded with two sets of close-set eyes.

"It's true," Sato slumped a little more. "I was never quite the same after the Xindi War. At first, we thought everything was fine, that I just needed to recover for a week or so. And T'Pol worked with me to get a handle on it. She always was a great mentor, as much as she would dismiss my saying so...

"I deployed for the Romulan front. Things with me were normal. But then it got worse again. It didn't seem to matter how much I meditated, or how closely I adhered to operating procedures. I heard things that - that weren't there. I'd encrypt things with the wrong encryption codes, I'd report to duty at the wrong times. I became enraged at nothing, but I was utterly unfeeling when I was supposed to be afraid or grieving. I had strange swings in my ability. My efficiency dropped, and my rate of errors went up. I started making _weird_ errors.

"It … it cost us lives. And the Captain said I was no longer fit for duty." Misery and shame welled up in her and she grew still while Reed shifted next to her. When she started again, her voice had gone hoarse.

"He decided that I should take a sabbatical. I went to tutor the kids on a more permanent basis. Phlox was researching a more permanent solution for me. He felt guilty for not magicking up some miracle cure to start with. I was stabilizing, and the Captain said if Phlox could fix me then I'd have my old commission. But then," she took a shuddering breath. "Daisy. And Phlox. And all the rest."

"Those appointments you mentioned waiting for you once you return to Federation space?" Plormot asked. She shrugged noncommittally.

"They always think they've found some way to permanently fix it. Fix me, I mean. They say it's for real this time. Not that I'm holding my breath."

"You can't think like that," Reed offered to her. She didn't bother looking at him. Empty eyes reflected the phal.

"It's been over _five years_ , Malcolm. Even if they do manage to fix me, has Starfleet _ever_ reinstated anyone's commission after a five, six year gap since they last saw service?" She looked back at Plormot. Whatever unsteadiness that had hit her seemed to have receded again. She turned to Plormot.

"That's why I'm working and traveling under a different name. I'm no longer as reliable. On the off-chance I'm miraculously cured, I won't have ruined my work history with my - with my being me."

"And you, Lieutenant Reed? Why do you travel under an assumed identity?"

He shrugged. "Same reason, really. A job went pear-shaped, I was injured." He saw Plormot's self-satisfied grin at having earlier guessed. "Get over it, I'm fully recovered, now."

"You say 'a job' went wrong. This job sounds dangerous."

"Something like that," Reed said vaguely, his attention now latched onto Sato's fidgeting. The vagueness piqued Plormot's interest and he could not bring himself to deny it, given the progress they were making.

"So you are no longer employed by Starfleet?"

"I am, actually. It's all a bit confusing what with overlapping branches of service and conjoined mission objectives and all that."

"You return to Earth, then?"

"Temporarily."

"And then?" He shrugged, still observing the fidgeting beside him.

"I go back to work."

"For whom?" The question brought that flinty stare zeroing back in on Plormot's face.

Again, Plormot was suddenly back at the Tokatlian Hotel, brushing ever so close to danger. At the Tokatlian, Plormot had an overwhelming sense of mortal danger from a monster lurking nearby. This time, he reviled at his curiosity. He had been treading on ice, and not noticed it grow thinner and thinner.

Now, he felt certain he had unwittingly cornered something dangerous in a place it didn't want to be. Maybe it was over-philosophical of him to debate such a distinction, but he almost preferred being stalked by a monster over crossing one and being perceived as a threat. Gone was the boring, rigid discipline. Plormot gazed into the soul of something cunning that, at its core, was untamed.

How to extricate himself?

"I am astonished," Plormot commented mildly. "The both of you travel under false pretenses, the both of you travel with false passports. How am I to reconcile such a fact?"

Again, Reed shrugged.

"That's up to you. For what it's worth, it's common practice. It's actually become something somewhat close to being sanctioned in some circles, albeit unofficial.

"Common practice? How?"

"Over seven million people were killed in the Xindi attack. The Xindi War and it's aftermath added to the death count. The Romulan War has been picking off people as we speak. When someone dies, they leave behind their social security numbers, national id numbers, credit histories and the like." He shot Plormot a look.

"No one's saying it's a good thing to travel under a different identity, but millions of people suddenly don't need theirs anymore, so it happens. Anyway, you can have those passports checked, they aren't fake. They're real. Belonged to real people. So we aren't in violation of the Trans-Federate Accord of Diluvh, Section 184, Paragraph B." Reed had rattled off the explanation as though he were describing how to tie a shoe when he stopped short.

"Actually, it's meant to stay something of an unofficial secret, since these passports have nothing to do with the murder. If you catch my meaning." Plormot marveled at the man's gall. Here he sat, a suspect of murder, and he so casually tells the investigator to keep confidence in their concealed identities.

"How can I be certain they don't?"

"Perhaps you can't be, but nonetheless, they don't."

"Miss Sato," Plormot switched tracks.

"There remains the fact that you could have helped me in the matter of identification."

"What do you mean?"

"Is it possible, Miss Sato, that you did not recognize Countess Kyrth, as your former student whom you taught in New York, Talla Shran?"

"Countess Kyrth?" She shook her head. "No. She confused me when I saw her, that's true, but I assumed I was seeing things, a neurological episode. I knew her when she was a child. I last saw her when she was a teenager, over three or four years ago, now. Why would I connect her to the little girl I taught years ago? Besides, I had my own preoccupations." Preoccupations.

"You still have not told me the meaning behind those words, Miss. You will not tell me your secret? About your decision on whether you would undertake some task?" He knew he was close to _something_ , but the answer, the true and complete answer, was just out of sight.

"I – I don't." She blinked rapidly at the phal. "It's to do with… with whether I…" And then, without warning, she broke down and sobbed into her hands. The cool, meticulous, even ruthless aura he'd perceived from her had evaporated before their eyes. No wonder vulcans found humans so unsettling. Were _all_ humans {roller coasters,} waiting to dizzy some poor alien with flights of inconsistency?

Humans could learn clinical behaviors, as evidenced by the two in front of him, but Plormot spent the day watching as the two untethered their emotions to reveal how mercurial and tumultuous they could be. At one time, Plormot had likened the woman to a sentient machine, and considered the man to be boring and straightforward. The tin woman had emotions, it turned out, and he watched as the man proved to be anything but.

The lieutenant sprang up and awkwardly stood beside her, his hand caught inches from her shoulder. He seemed afraid to touch her, so he torturously mimed patting her shoulder.

"Hoshi – I – look here..." He cut himself short and rounded on Plormot, his posture flaring. He snarled: "I'll break every bone in your damn body, you nasty little cretin." Then, he turned back again to Sato.

"Hoshi, please just … well, breathe?" He trailed lamely, still hovering a hand a couple of inches away. It seemed he couldn't decide between attempting to comfort Sato or go after Plormot. She took the decision out of his hands, however, by getting to her feet, wiping her eyes.

"It's nothing." A brief look passed between the two, and Plormot again felt he was ever so close to the answer to that conversation. There was some simple answer that would solve the whole mystery behind that conversation, but he was being left out, which he hated. She was wiping her eyes, now. "I'm all right. I'm just _so stupid_. You don't need me anymore, do you? I'm just going to my berth. I'm such a useless …" She retreated and disappeared out the door.

Reed initially made to follow her, then detoured to swing back and fix Plormot with a furious look.

"I swear to you, if she has another set back because of your interference and meddling, you'll have me to deal with."

He strode out.

"I sometimes like to see an upset human," Plormot crowed. "They are very amusing. The more worked up they feel, the more flustered they get. Our Lt. Keller – no, our Lt. Reed – has blustered himself into something of a state."

Douqh was not preoccupied with human states of emotion, however. He was caught up in his own admiration for Plormot.

"What a whirlwind, Hilus!" Douqh exclaimed. "Another miraculous guess."

"It is incredible how you think of these things," Dr. Suric added.

"Guess? It wasn't a guess – ah, you may refer to Miss Sato's neurological complications. That, in truth, that was indeed, very much a shot in the dark. I had originally offered it up to her as an easy option to eliminate, in our earlier interview, mainly to warm her up. A way to set her at ease. Yet, she didn't eliminate it."

"But the other points? The identities of Reed and Sato? They were not guesses?"

"No, of course not!" Plormot threw his friends an injured look. "Our dear Countess Kyrth told me of Lee's true identity, herself."

"Told you? When?"

"You remember, I asked her about her tutor? I had already decided in my mind that if Miss Lee were mixed up in the matter, then she must have figured into the household or the Captains' lives professionally."

"Yes, but you pressed the Countess to describe her, and she described a very tall woman."

"Exactly. She had already given her tutor's name as Hoshi Sato, a name with which I was already vaguely familiar. She had seen the other passengers and knew, therefore, that her former tutor was aboard this ship with us, so she proceeded to describe a very different woman. A very tall, very loud and large-busted woman.

"Since the Countess described someone so different, I concluded it was our Miss Lee. This also meant, therefore, that Hannah Lee was an alias."

"But how could you guess Reed?"

"How could I _not_ guess Reed? Once I knew Lee was an alias for Sato, and Keller had proclaimed not to know Jonathan Archer, I knew Keller was also an alias. The two of them knew each other before starting this journey. He called her { _darling,_ } a term of intimacy that someone as uptight as him would never use lightly." Seeing the perplexed looks on the faces of his friends, Plormot broke it down.

"If Sato was so intimately connected to the Archers, and if Sato was traveling as Lee, and Lee was traveling with Keller, and if Lee and Keller knew each other, then Keller was also a fraud. If Keller was a fraud, then it stood to reason he was also connected to both Sato, and Archer."

"You are brilliant!" Douqh cried.

"My," Dr. Suric moaned. "Does everyone on this ship tell nothing but lies?"

"That," Plormot said. "Is what we are about to find out."


	29. Further Revelations

"Nothing would surprise me now," Douqh said. "Nothing! Even if everybody on this whole ship proves to be a member of the Archer or Hernandez circle, I won't be a _bit_ surprised."

"That is a very profound remark," Plormot said with a grim smile. "Would you like to see what one of your favorite suspects has to say? The human shuttle salesman?"

"You're testing another guess of yours?"

"Exactly."

"This is just such a fantastical case," said Suric.

"On the contrary. It is most natural." Plormot ignored Douqh as his friend flung his arms up with comic despair.

"Natural! Natural, he says. What part of _any of this_ is natural?" He fell silent when the attendant brought forth the giant human.

Declan Stills came forth with a wary look. He shot glances to each of their faces, to the chair in which intended to sit, to the door opposite him, to the portholes and back to their faces. He reminded Plormot of a trapped animal that recognized it's diminishing chances of escape. He briefly thought back to the sense of veiled danger he'd felt with Reed and Sato mere minutes ago.

"What is it you want!" Stills demanded. It seemed he'd lost control over his volume. His voice boomed. "What else could I possibly tell you? What else?" He struck one of his hands on the table, causing Plormot's Douqh's teacup to rattle.

"You might first dispense with the attempt to act angry," Plormot began. At Stills's questioning glance, Plormot performed a crude mimic of Stills.

" 'What do you want!' " Plormot repeated somewhat comically, " 'What!?' " He belatedly slapped a weak hand against the table.

"Do you see what I mean? You merely pretend at indignation, so it doesn't occur to you to hit the table until after you have spoken. Human anger, I have come to learn, is explosive. It happens all at once. It is why humans have a reputation for being unpredictable." Instead of waiting for a response, he briskly got to business.

"Now, you ask what I want, Mr. Stills. It is quite simple. I would like to know why you have lied to us regarding your true identity?" He ignored Douqh's head slumping into his hands. Stills slowly dropped his pretense of anger and revealed his true jittery nervousness.

"My identity?"

"I have no doubt that your credentials are real," Plormot continued. "But you are not Declan Stills. I imagine Declan Stills is some poor man long since dead from the Xindi Attack some years back. I am told the practice of using such identities is considered commonplace."

The man's eyes found their way to the passport Plormot held on the table.

"You're wrong," he said. "Declan Stills didn't die in the Xindi Attack. He had never set foot on Earth."

"Who was he, then?"

"My cousin. We grew up on the Horizon together." He shot Plormot a look. "Declan really did work for Horizon Inc. And he really was always a great salesman, too."

"Your name, sir?" It took a moment to shake the large human from his memories.

"Travis Mayweather."

"Ah," Plormot sat back. "I am not so intimately familiar with Captain Archer's crew, having only read an article that mentioned some of you upon the end of the Xindi War some six years ago. But it makes sense. That would make you the pilot, yes?"

"The helmsman." Mayweather responded. His nervousness had died down, and he looked older now, since both his nerves and his charming charisma had gone.

"You have something more to tell us," Plormot said firmly. "The truth!"

The nerves came flooding back, and Mayweather looked like he was simultaneously ready to bolt and melt into a miserable hole.

"The truth?"

'My,' Plormot thought. 'When we met this man, and he was all youthful self-assurance and geniality. That boyish, sunny man is all gone, and he is left a nervous wreck.'

"The truth. It would help you greatly if you tell the truth now."

"You sound like the police. 'Come clean' they say. 'It's okay, just come clean.' "

"So you have prior experience with the police?"

Plormot imagined this Mayweather to have once been a present-minded man of enormous wit and easy confidence. Now, he was erratic, swinging from calm resignation to fearful terror and back again. At this moment, Mayweather swung back to panic.

"No! No, they never had anything on me! Not that they didn't try – I never did anything wrong! That's why they never found anything! Not for their lack of trying to find something."

Plormot tried to dial it down:

"The Archer Affair. You were the … I forget the English term, the chauffeur? The pilot?" Mayweather nodded.

"Helmsman. I shuttled the family wherever they needed to go, on or off Earth." The bluster had left him again, and Mayweather suddenly held the look of someone far older than him. Plormot was accustomed to old men attaining a look of haunted, hunted, exhaustion. It looked curiously revolting on such a young and handsome man.

"Seems you know who I am," Mayweather continued. "Since you knew, why bother asking me?"

"Why did you lie this morning?"

"Why? Because of course. I don't trust the Nivaluzian police. Hell, I don't really trust _any_ police at this point, but Nivaluzians don't really like humans, do they? And with who I really am, they would never have given me justice."

"Perhaps it is precisely justice that they would have given you."

"No. No!" Mayweather flashed Plormot a disgusted look before turning to the porthole. "I've _never_ committed murder, if that's what you're implying. You can't prove anything against me – not for killing this monster – this _Parisi_."

Plormot tapped the passport a couple more times, thinking. He turned back to Mayweather and said:

"Very good. You can go." Mayweather sensed he'd missed something and wound up.

"… So you know that I didn't commit murder?"

"I said you can go."

Such an empty answer left Mayweather spiraling back into his memories of the Archer investigation.

"Are you going to tell the Nivaluzian police it was me? All for a monster of a man who should have gotten his due years ago? It was a sham that he didn't. If it had been me, like the police thought – If I had been arrested-"

"But it was not you. You had nothing to do with the child's abduction."

"What are you saying?" Mayweather gripped the armrests. "You sound just like them, the police. I could never hurt a kid, let alone Daisy! She -" He broke off, suddenly wheeling into despondent grief rather than feeding off of nerves.

"She called me 'Avis, did you know that? She couldn't pronounce Travis, so she started calling me 'Avis and that was my name, just like that, even after she started learning to pronounce her Ts and Rs." He fiddled with a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve.

"She'd sit on my lap and demand that we fly. I'd set the controls to autopilot, and she'd sit on my lap and make me point out which controls did what. And she'd mime along." His long fingers continued to worry at the fraying hem of his sleeve. He broke into a smile, giving a hollow reminder of his boyish looks.

"I was going to make her into the best pilot the galaxy has ever known. I was always giving the Captain a run for his money as far as flying went, and I knew Daisy'd be better than me in no time. She was a natural. She-" he briefly looked bashful, "I never let the Captain know this, but I'd actually take the shuttle off autopilot every so often and let her fly for real. Solo. I was always ready to take over, but she was a natural."

"You let a five-year-old fly a shuttle?" Dr. Suric asked, nonplussed. He had forgotten himself, and Plormot could have smacked him in that moment. Luckily, it didn't break Travis's state, because he simply shrugged and gave a watery smile.

"You didn't see her. I hardly needed to step in. If I'd had a couple more years, I'd have had her doing side-lateral zero-grav parking jobs before she finished learning to pronounce her Ts." His smile dropped. "She was the light of that house. We all worshiped her.

"The Captains, they'd had a tough time of it during the war, and she was the only good thing to last through it, and Trip and the Subcommander were off their heads with Eliz - with all the stuff they had going on. She helped Zia acclimate to Earth and human customs – she really was the glue. Truly." He faltered for just a moment.

"I wasn't exactly as relaxed as I had been, and I was just trying to keep it together. I guess I don't look it now, but I used to have solid nerves. Even T'Pol once told me I was always calm under stress ... Anyway, my nerves were shot after the war. And we couldn't figure out why H-" he stumbled. "Why our comms officer was getting worse, and then Commander Shran died, so Daisy was Talla's lifeline." He fixed his gaze back onto Plormot's for the first time in several minutes. Plormot finally understood why humans poetically called their eyes the windows into their souls. Travis's eyes were pools of earnest depth.

"Eventually, the police came to realize how much she held everyone together. They had to go after everyone and make sure none of use were behind it. I understood, I got that. Only, they refused to believe me that I'd never do anything to her! Well, eventually, they realized what she meant to everyone." His voice had grown progressively softer. The shining tears he had managed to hold back receded to leave dull eyes. Again, he was unexpectedly left without much in the way of energy. A moment or two passed in silence before he wheeled out of his chair and disappeared out the door.

"And how did you guess Mayweather's true identity?" Douqh asked, no longer with his characteristic admiration and pomp. The human's emotional roller-coaster had left everyone exhausted. Plormot gave a shrug.

"Reed mentioned it has become normal to take another human's identity if they want to travel privately. Stills felt like a real person to me, and yet I knew he must be a fraud. It makes sense, then, that Still's true identity be someone who would still know a great deal about ships. A helmsman made sense. The Archers would have had one."

"He is all over the place," Douqh noted unhappily. "Could he have leapt from one state of mind to another and produce an attack as irregular as his emotional states?" Dr. Suric frowned and looked over to Plormot, who deflected back.

"What do you think, doctor?"

"For my part, he certainly could have done it. Physically, I believe he is the most formidable person aboard this ship. And the irregularities in the stab wounds would entirely fit what we've just witnessed. As far as my purview permits, he is my new 'favorite' suspect for this crime. But I am no psychologist. What do you say, Mr. Plormot?"

The Xoisk detective sat still for a bit.

"It could be," he murmured. "It could be, but then…?" He trailed off before shaking himself. "But, we must carry on, before we distract ourselves with endless ponderings." Plormot waved at the attendant through the porthole in the door at the far end who obliged and withdrew to summon the next passenger.

"No, Hilus. Another?" Douqh's cries drastically lowered in pitch when he saw who entered. "Not her, it is not possible. How could it be?"

"My friend, we must know. Even if, in the end, every sentient being on this ship proves to have had a motive for killing Parisi, we must know. Once we know, we can settle once and for all where the guilt truly lies."

"My head is spinning," Douqh complained, whispering now, as Finta drew nearer.

Finta was ushered in by a sympathetic attendant. Once the crewman withdrew to watch the proceedings through the door's porthole should Plormot wave again, Finta allowed herself to weep more freely. She let her legs give way and sat, blowing into a tissue.

"Now, dear Finta, please do not exhaust yourself." Plormot gave her a genuine smile and he patted her shoulder. "Just a little bit of clarification. Just a few words of truth is all. You were the pediatrician in charge of Daisy Archer?"

"It's true, it's true," Finta sobbed. "She was everyone's angel. She trusted everyone!" Her sobs grew to wails. "She never knew anything but love and kindness – until that – that…!" She gulped.

"All until _he_ took her. He would have been the first cruelty she would have ever known, and the last thing she ever knew. And Erika was positively lost, and the other one who never lived at all. And Jonathan buried himself in the search. You cannot understand. There's no way you could know. If you had been there, if you had seen…!" Plormot plucked up a chance to speak during a break when she drew breath to calm herself.

"You were there? You were with Dr. Phlox when you both stumbled into the abduction?" She nodded.

"Phlox. My husband. We had taken a night out, and when we returned, something was wrong. Phlox went to see, and then I followed and then the world turned upside down. It's never been right, since."

Plormot continued to pat and soothe her.

"I should have told you the truth about myself this morning. But I was afraid. And I was glad that he was dead, I admit that. He cannot kill or torture any other child. He cannot ruin any more lives." She crumbled into resigned sobs, all the while Plormot rubbed circles into her threadbare sweater.

"There, that's alright. I understand everything. I have no more questions of you. I understand."

Plormot eventually got her calmed enough to wave the attendant back into the room. He aided the elderly woman as she groped her way through her tears and retreated out the room. Before Plormot could arrange for the next passenger, Strophyr Zahn entered.

"I hope I am not intruding, sirs. Is this a good time?" As polite as ever. Plormot nodded.

"It's just that my berth-mate here, he's been pretty out of it since he came back from seeing you. I gather he's told you what Daisy meant to him. If you've got it into your head that he was somehow able to commit murder, you've got it all wrong."

"Oh?" Plormot asked. "How would you know?"

"I was Captain Hernandez's steward during the war. I met Travis on occasion throughout, but we started working together afterwards. I stayed on as her assistant, and Travis took up as the helmsman. Anyway, I know I hid my history and employment with Captain Hernandez this morning, so I need you to know it, now.

"Travis could never hurt a fly. Literally. He was born in the void, you know. So any sort of insect was a minor miracle to him. It didn't matter if they they were mosquitoes and if they bit him, he couldn't bear to kill them. Daisy…" he choked.

"Daisy hated flies, and this one time there were several stuck in her room. Zia was new to Earth and didn't know what to do, so Daisy called for Travis. He spent a quarter of an hour leaping around her room with a jar and a net, tying to capture them alive and take them outside..." The steward's ordinarily unreadable face showed him plainly reliving a good memory.

"So you see, I've known Travis for years. I know he can seem a bit off as far as his emotions these days, but he's a good kid. He was put through the wringer during the investigation, but even they eventually realized he was only ever a big brother to her." The steward stared at them.

"Is that all you have to say?" Plormot asked.

"That is all, sir." Strophyr regarded them for a moment more before he turned and departed.

"This," Suric said, "is more improbable and astounding than any work of fiction I have ever read." Douqh drained his teacup.

"Out of twelve passengers, nine of them have now proved to have had a connection with the Archer Affair. What next? Or rather, who next?"

"But look," Plormot said. "Here comes our Earth-based sleuth, Zraevetsol." Indeed, the giant green man had entered and approached.

"Is he coming to confess?" Douqh whispered, but stopped when the orion drew near.

He flopped down into the seat across from them and gave a friendly huff.

"Do you have any idea what's going on with this ship? It's a mess, is what it is." Plormot grinned at him.

"Are you quite sure, Zraevetsol, that you were not the Archer's gardener?"

"They didn't have a gardener," he responded literally. "Besides, I've never had a 'green thumb.'" He grinned at the irony, given his obviously green pigmentation.

"So you weren't the dog walker?"

"Nope. They were never the type to ever have a need for one. As I understand it, they were the type to do the walking and grooming themselves. They were pretty hands-on with all that stuff. But, I see what you're asking.

"No, I was never employed by anyone in the family. I'm starting to think I'm about the only one on this ship who wasn't! Can you believe it? Seems like just about everyone here either worked for them, or was a member of the family!

"It's certainly a lot to digest," Plormot commented in a mild voice. "Do you have any theories of your own about this crime, Zraevetsol?"

"No, sir! I don't envy you the job you have ahead of you. I know I'm supposed to be a Pinkerton and all that, so I'm supposed to self-promote just how well-trained I am in the ways of detection. But I wouldn't have a clue as to where to even begin. How are you going to decide who here is the guilty party? Really, though, how did you figure out as much about the passengers as you did? That's what I really want to know."

"I guessed."

"You _guessed?_ Well, then, you're an amazing guesser. You belong at the card table. If you ever decide to visit Vegas, hit me up and I'll hold a place at the table for you." Zraevetsol gave Plormot an admiring look.

"Maybe I've spent too much time around humans," he continued. "But you'll excuse me if this comes off as rude: No one would believe it to look at you, but you truly are brilliant."

"You are too kind, Zraevetsol."

"Nope, not at all. Credit where credit's due."

"Do not credit me too soon." Plormot said. "This case is not yet solved. Can we say with certainty that we know who killed Mr. Evered?"

"Count me out," said Zraevetsol. "I'm just full of admiration to you. I've heard of you, but I never imagined I'd get to see you work up close. As to the case, I've no idea.

"Hey," he said, uncrossing his leg and switching it with the other. "What about the other two you haven't had a second go around with? The old risian lady, the crazy one, and the betazoid one? I guess they're the only innocent people on this whole ship?"

"Unless," Plormot smiled, "we can work them into our cohort. Who would they be cast as? Say, an administrator of sorts?"

"Well, nothing wold surprise me at this point," Zraevetsol repeated. He grew lost for a moment before shaking his head again. "Nothing at all."

"Hilus," Douqh spoke up. "To 'cast' the final two in connection to the Archer Affair is madness. It defies any sense. They cannot all be in on it."

"You do not understand," Plormot countered. "Do you not know who killed Evered?"

"Do you?" Douqh shot back. Plormot nodded solemly.

"I have known for some time. It is so clear that I wonder you have not seen it also." Plormot looked to Zraevetsol. "What about you?"

"I told you, I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to even begin to tackle this case."

Plormot was silent a minute as he eyed the green man. Then:

"Zraevetsol, if you would please. Assemble everyone here. There are only two possible solutions to this case. I will lay them both before you all."


	30. Plormot Proposes Two Solutions

Before Zraevetsol's return, the Orion Express's captain poked his head in and announced that the phal had cleared sufficiently enough to grant him some limited communication to Pordd, and that Pordd had indeed sent a vessel to tow them to dock. Though they were en route, they wouldn't arrive until perhaps the early hours of the following morning. Upon Douqh's despairing look, Plormot took him aside and spoke in low tones.

"Fret not. As I say, I have the solutions ready and prepared for the Nivaluzian authorities. This case will be wrapped up in a matter of an hour or two."

The passengers came crowding into the restaurant quarters and took seats around the room. They all shared more or less similar expressions of tense expectancy. The denobulan lady, Finta, was still weeping, and Mrs. Valy'r ad risen to the occasion and now displayed uncharacteristic tenderness in comforting her.

"Calm yourself now. I'm right here and none of us will let anything happen to you."

Plormot stood and cleared his throat. Silence fell.

"Princess, Ladies and Gentlemen, I will speak in English since I think all of you understand and speak that language. We are here to investigate the death of Shaun Richard Evered, more famously known as Parisi.

"There are two possible solutions to this crime. I shall put both before you all, and my colleagues, Mr. Douqh and Dr. Suric here, will judge which solution is the right one.

"Now you all know by now the facts of the case. Mr. Evered was found stabbed this morning. He was last known to be alive at 12.37 last night when he spoke to the Orion Express's purser through the door. A watch in his pajama pocket was found to be broken, with the hands stopped at quarter past one. Dr. Suric examined the body and puts the time of death as somewhere from eleven at night and three in the morning, but likely more specifically between midnight and two. Half an hour after midnight, as you all know, the ship ran into a phal system and was stopped.

"With the discovery of the body, came also the discovery that the compartment's escape pod had been activated, and was gone. Other than the escape pods, it is impossible for anyone to leave the ship.

"Zraevetsol, who was traveling as a rotary belt salesman, revealed himself to be a member of an Earth detective agency-" Several heads turned towards Zraevetsol before returning their attention to Plormot. "And he had kept watch that night. No one could have passed his compartment at the end, without him seeing. The movements of the crew were accounted for. We were therefore forced to conclude that the murderer was among the passengers."

There was a brief pause while Plormot examined everyone in the room.

"At least, that was our theory."

"What?" Mr. Douqh cried out. Plormot ignored him.

"I will put before you an alternative theory. It is very simple:

"Evered had an enemy whom he feared. He had received threatening letters, some samples which his fastidious secretary, Mr. Qozz, kept. He hired Zraevetsol for additional protection and gave him a description of his enemy and told him the attempt, if made, would most likely be made on the second night out from St'aldor.

"It is clear, now, that Mr. Evered knew a good deal more than he told. The enemy, this assassin, as Mr. Evered expected, boarded the ship, possibly at Epuhled, or else Nondinsi by entering the ship after Lieutenant Keller and Mr. Qozz descended to the landing dock. He boarded wearing an Agate Inc uniform, bearing the patches of an Orion Express purser, over his regular clothes, and a pass-key which granted him access to Mr. Evered's compartment, despite it's locked state.

"Mr. Evered was under the influence of a sedative, which he commonly took while hopping the void. The assassin stabbed him a great number of times. He disposed of the knife by placing it into the escape pod and set it on a timer to eject after takeoff to confuse the authorities. He then left the compartment through the communicating door between Evered's and Mrs. Valy'r's compartment-"

"That's true," said Mrs. Valy'r, who nodded her head.

"He slipped out of the compartment and along the corridor. He removed his uniform and shoved it into a suitcase in an empty compartment. A few minutes later, dressed in his ordinary clothes, he left the ship before it launched, using the same hatch he used earlier, following Lieutenant Keller and Mr. Qozz. In this way, authorities will look for the culprit who escaped via an escape pod, rather than retracing events at the station in Nondinsi. The assassin is free to make good his escape."

A few people gasped.

"What about the watch?" Zraevetsol asked.

"Ah, it's quite simple. Mr. Evered forgot to put his watch back an hour as he should have at Xezympordd. His watch still registered Ragheft IV region time, which is one our ahead of Nivaluzian time during this period of orbital rotation. It was a quarter past midnight when Mr. Evered was stabbed – not a quarter past one."

For a moment, everyone seemed to quietly take stock of themselves.

"But that is absurd!" Mr. Douqh burst out. "What about the voice that spoke from the compartment at twenty-three minutes to one? It was either Mr. Evered, or his murderer speaking."

"Not necessarily. It might have been a third person. Perhaps another passenger who had gone into Evered's compartment to speak to him, who found him dead. Initially, they rang the bell to summon the purser, but then, a typical change of heart arises. Suddenly, they became afraid of being accused of the crime, and he spoke pretending to be Evered."

"I suppose it's possible," Douqh grudgingly admitted, though he didn't seem entirely convinced.

"Sir, do you think I forgot to put my watch back, too?" Mrs. Valy'r asked.

"No, Mrs. Valy'r, perhaps not. I think you heard the man pass through, but were still asleep. You were in that odd middle state between wakefulness and sleep, so you heard it subconsciously. Later, you had a nightmare of a man being in your compartment and woke up with a start and rang for the conductor."

"Well, I suppose that's possible," Mrs. Valy'r stammered. Princess Nehn's dark eyes bored into Plormot.

"How do you explain my maid's evidence, sir?"

"Very simply, Princess. Your maid encountered the man in the hallway, but earlier, while the ship was still stationed at Nondinsi. She is, as you say, very loyal. Once we began our investigation into the possibility of the murderer being among the passengers, she pretended to have seen him at a later hour, with the confused intention of giving you an air-tight alibi."

The princess's eyes continued to stare at him before she dipped her great head.

"You have thought of everything, Mr. Plormot. I – I admire you."

There was silence.

Everyone jumped as Dr. Suric struck the table in frustration. Plormot's empty teacup and saucer rattled.

"No!" He cried. "No, it still does not fit! Mr. Plormot, surely you must see how inadequate your explanation is – you know very well that this crime could not have been committed as such."

Plormot regarded his new colleague. No one moved.

"I see that you are dissatisfied," he murmured. "Then, I will honor your curiosity and explain my second solution to this affair. But do not forget the first so hastily. You may later find you agree with it." He turned to the other passengers.

"The second solution is a simple one. I will take you through my process, so you may understand how I arrived at such an explanation.

"When I heard all of the evidence, I sat and closed my eyes and finally began to consider everything. There were several issues that I wrestled with and could not wrap my mind around until I had given them my full attention.

"First, there was something my dear friend Izu mentioned to me at lunch the first day of our travels together – before the murder. He mentioned how the company here, all of us passengers, were fascinating because of its diversity in persons from across classes, species and nationalities. So many people coming from so many corners of the galaxy for such a fleeting moment only to disperse upon arrival.

"This particular point stuck to my mind. I tried to imagine how many other instances could such a collection of people converge. Perhaps some intergalactic university, but those are often delineated by class and will be predominantly weighted towards the young and the learned. Perhaps also in places like the Belt, from where Zraevetsol originally hails; but again, such a place is primarily sought out by only very specific classes and species.

"And then the answer came to me. It was obvious, really. Only in the Federation, ratified within the past ten years. The Federation is a new institution still, it is true, but already, the results on intergalactic travel and trade is clear. Only in the Federation. In the Federation, there might be a corporation, and office, an exploration vessel and, indeed, a household, where such varied people might assemble.

"A space-born shuttle salesman, an academic linguist, a denobulan missionary, a betazoid lady's maid and so on. This led me to my plan of 'guessing' as Zraevetsol puts it. In other words, it was this very line of thought that helped me to 'cast' each person to play a certain role in the Archer Affair much the same as a director or producer casts a performance.

"In considering each person's interviews and comparing them to my separate knowledge, I came to some fascinating parallels. Take, for example, our Mr. Wroe'bex Qozz.

"My first interview with him was perfectly normal, and led me absolutely nowhere new. But the second interview brought something new. I told him that I had discovered a note in the dead man's compartment which mentioned the Archer Affair. He said, 'But surely-' and he stopped himself. 'I mean, that was careless of the old man.' Something to that affect.

"He had covered himself, but he had started to say something else. I posit that he meant to say something quite different, something closer to the words, 'But surely that note was destroyed.' If my suggestion is accurate, and I believe it is, it can only mean Qozz knew of the note and of the attempt to destroy it. He was therefore either the murderer or and accomplice to the murderer. Simple thus far.

"Now to the dead man's other employee, the antaran steward, Strophyr Zahn. He said his employer habitually took a sleeping aid, a sedative, when hopping the void. This may be so, but I had to ask myself whether the dead man would have taken one last night? The phase pistol under his pillow proved the lie to that idea easily enough.

"If one is in fear for their life, and bothers to place a weapon so near to their head while they sleep, it would only hinder them to take something deleterious to his defense. He full well meant to remain alert last night. Whatever he was given last night must have been against his knowledge. By whom? Well, I should say the obvious answer would be by Qozz or Zahn.

"Personally, I see Zahn as the more likely, between the two. For one thing, he is a steward by trade, and it would be normal for him to serve food and drink, among other duties. I see him as having the cool nerve to do such a deed with a certitude born of long experience under pressure.

"Zraevetsol, then. I immediately believed him when he told me of his identity and line of work. I just as instantly disregarded his account of his methods to guard Evered from harm. His story, his professed methods, they were nothing more than a pack of poor lies. Frankly, I was a little disappointed in his explanation of peeking from his door to watch a narrow slice of the hallway from the end of the passage. The only way to effectively protect someone in such a scenario would have been to either spend the night actually inside the compartment with the target, or else to remain immediately outside the door.

"The only thing Zraevetsol's evidence showed was that none of the other passengers on the Orion Express could possibly have murdered Evered. His evidence neatly absolved all other passengers of any suspicion. This in and of itself seemed rather fantastic to me, considering it came from a member of a detective agency. From someone who would presumably have some measure of curiosity in how one of the passengers might have done the deed. Detectives, private or not, are curious and cynical.

"Instead of offering so much as a single theory, his evidence prevented any opportunity for the passengers to have done it. This seemed oppositional to what I would expect, both from him and from the realities of the situation, so I put it aside for later. Suffice it to say, I was convinced that Zraevetsol was, indeed, who he said he was. I was convinced he told the truth, that he is a detective for a private company. Therefore, I was convinced he was lying, because no curious mind would sit back and remain content with such a baffling set of circumstances. But again, I will move on.

"By now, you have probably all heard of the partial conversation I overheard between Miss Lee and Lieutenant Keller. The interesting thing to my mind was the fact that the lieutenant called her darling and was clearly intimately known to her. But he was only supposed to have meet her a few days previously. Miss Lee said it best, of the lieutenant. 'I know the type.'

"Indeed, Lieutenant Keller is the type of human who, even if he had fallen in love with her at first sight, he would have gone about things slowly and with the upmost caution. He would not have rushed things and used terms of intimacy. He would have moved at a pace so slow as to make quarter impulse speed seem fast. My conclusion was obvious, then. Lieutenant Keller and Miss Lee were, in reality, well acquainted, yet were parading as strangers for some undisclosed reason.

"In addition to the suspicious nature of her travel companion, I noticed a drastic change in her disposition between two otherwise identical situations. I had initially viewed her as a cool, collected mind and personality. But upon a minor stoppage of a mere ten minutes or so, I watched as she unraveled into a mass of nerves and unsteadiness. She tried to play it off as a matter of compounding delays, but I was nonetheless aware of how scientific she has been under stress one moment, and scattered when pushed on certain points. When I proposed to her a series of explanations, she did not outright refuse the one I had offered as an easy out, a neurological issue. I will move on for the moment, however I will note my lingering curiosity over her inconsistency.

"There is the testimony of Mrs. Valy'r. She had told us that while she lay in her berth, she kept her eyes shut as a man became present in her compartment. Now, I will discuss the issue of time, for it coincides with Mrs. Valy'r's evidence. The dead man's watch was broken, and found in his pajama pocket. While it is possible he may have preferred to sleep with his watch inside his pajama pocket, it could easily fall out, and would most certainly be inconvenient and uncomfortable. There is a bedside table just next to his head, why not put it there? I was certain the broken watch was set to show the time as quarter past one deliberately.

"If the watch was a blind, and the crime was committed at some time other than quarter past one, then when was it committed? Was it earlier? I was awoken at twenty-three minutes to one by a loud yell. My friend, Mr. Douqh was positive that would have been the time, at 12.37.

"A sound conclusion, but for how impossible it is. If the victim were heavily drugged, he could not have yelled. And besides, if he had been able to cry out, he would have therefore been able to attempt to defend his life. Yet, there were no signs of a struggle.

"Mr. Qozz noted, more than once, and quite obviously, that Evered spoke no Axanarian. After all of this, it became clear to me that the business with the watch, the cry in the night, the many instances where all signs seemed to steer me to assigning a time to the murder was a concerted effort to mislead me. Anyone could see through the watch – it's a rather obvious blind that comes up often enough.

"But here is the genius – they assumed that I would see through it – they planned that I would see through it. They planned for me to feather my ego by spotting such a blind, and thereby steer me towards the assumption that since Evered spoke no Axanarian that the voice I heard at 12.37 would be someone else, and that Evered would be dead already. Through all of this, I strongly believe that at twenty-three minutes to one, at 12.37, Evered was still lying in his berth, asleep and drugged, but very much alive.

"But the plan's design was successful! I heard the cry in the night. The ruckus was enough that I got out of my berth and opened my door. I looked out. I heard the Axanarian phrase. Even if I were too tired or too fantastically dense to not realize the significance of the phrase, it can be brought to my attention. If necessary, Qozz could beat me over the head with it. He could tap my shoulder and explain that it couldn't have been Mr. Evered speaking, because he could not speak any Axanarian."

"Now, then. When was the crime committed then, if not at 12.37? And who killed him?"

"I have no way of verifying this, but it is my estimation that the crime was committed sometime around two in the morning.

"And as to who killed him..."

Plormot petered off, looking at those assembled. Only the passengers, Mr. Douqh, Dr. Suric and Plormot himself were present. All other attendants and crew had been barred entry. He had the full focus of every pair of eyes, locked onto him in rapt attention. The stillness was near absolute. He drew a careful breath and continued.

"I was intrigued by the extraordinary circumstances of having no easy person of interest in this case. In fact, it was fairly impossible to prove a case against any single person on this ship. Further, there was a curious pattern of randomization. I realize I have used two terms that are ordinarily used in opposition to one another. It seemed both random, these alibis, but there was a pattern to it, and it felt as though everything locked into a greater plan.

"In each interview, the testimony from everyone had the curious result of giving an alibi to another person who I would have described as seemingly random, or somehow unlikely. Mr. Qozz and Lieutenant Keller provided alibis for each other. Two people who seemed to have no connection, no particular interest in one another. Federate space is large, and Lieutenant Keller is career Starfleet, so there is no reason to assume he would have ever come across the young Qozz, especially as Keller made it clear he hadn't any 'use' for aliens.

"The same thing happened with the antaran steward and the human shuttle salesman, the denobulan missionary and the human academic. I thought to myself how extraordinary it all was.

"They cannot all be in on it!

"And that is when these many pieces fell into place. I finally saw the case as it was.

"They were all in on it.

"For so many people connected with the Archer case to be traveling in the same direction in the same region of space at the same time on the same ship all by a coincidence is not just unlikely. This was an occurrence brought about not by chance, but by design. I remembered Lieutenant Keller's opinion of a trial by jury.

"On Earth, a jury is composed of twelve people. Here, we had twelve passengers. Evered – well, we shall dispense with the falsities now – Parisi was stabbed twelve times. And finally, this imbalance that has confused this whole case, this varied and strange group of passengers traveling from St'aldor to Sioloc, and many going on through to Iser, is finally resolved. This time of year, passage is low. Again and again, both station attendants and my dear friend Izu exclaimed how incredible it was to have the Orion Express booked so solidly during such a slow time.

"Parisi had escaped justice on Earth. He had escaped justice in the Federation. There was no question of his guilt. It was easy for me to visualize a natural coming together of twelve people to serve as jurors. People, the only people remaining, who could condemn him to death and who would carry out the sentence. Upon this thought, the entire case fell into perfect, linear order.

"It all became beautifully neat and organized. Each person fulfilled a function, no matter how large or small. Everything was arranged so that if suspicion should fall on any single person, the evidence of one or more of the others would clear the accused person and confuse the case.

"Zraevetsol's evidence was necessary should some outsider be suspected of the crime and be unable to provide an alibi. The passengers were in no danger of this, and were insulated. Every detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant, no matter how minute, was planned and accounted for in advance.

"The entire affair was very carefully-planned so that anyone who discovered a new piece of information would further entangle themselves in confusion. As my friend, Izu remarked, this case seemed so impossible. But, that is precisely the intended outcome.

"Does this solution explain everything? Yes. The nature of the wounds – twelve of them, each inflicted by a different person. The artificial threatening letters, written only to provide to authorities and satisfy their questions. I have no doubt there are real letters, meant to terrorize Parisi in advance of his murder, which Qozz destroyed. Zraevetsol's story of being hired by Parisi was also, of course, a fabrication. The description of this mythical 'small dark man with a womanish voice' but no clue as to species, coloration, language… a convenient description, because it describes absolutely no one, and can therefore hurt no unfortunate bystander.

"The specific decision to use a knife and stab someone seemed curious to me at first, but ultimately fits. Anyone with opposable digits can grasp and therefore use a knife, whether they are strong or frail. It makes no noise. It is clear to me now. Each person in turn entered Parisi's darkened compartment through the communicating door of Mrs. Valy'r's room and struck. They themselves would never know who dealt which blow, nor which one actually killed him.

"The final letter which Parisi found in his compartment was destroyed. With nothing to indicate a relation to the Archer Affair, there would be no reason to suspect any of the passengers aboard the ship. Parisi would die under the name Evered, as anonymously as he tried to live, though ironically it would not help him. It would be assumed to be an outside job, and the 'small man with the womanish voice' would have been seen by a couple of the passengers leaving the ship at Pordd.

"But the meticulous plans were subjected to unforeseen events. The phal. I am not sure when the conspirators realized the extent of the phal drift, nor am I certain of what exactly happened between them when they realized what it meant for their plans. The stoppage cast much of their planning to the debris chute.

"I imagine there was a last-minute, hasty meeting. They determined to carry on and go through with it. The stoppage now meant that every passenger would certainly come under suspicion and investigation, but that possibility had been accounted for. Now, they needed to confuse the case. Testimony was given regarding the purser and red robed woman and additional 'clues' were discovered in the form of the uniform and the red robe. Other evidence, specifically the knife, was gotten rid of by way of the escape pod.

"The incriminating 'clue' of the uniform was discovered in the betazoid lady's maid's luggage. I suspect it was a move designed to cast additional suspicion upon her, given that her connection to the Archer family would probably be the most difficult to prove. Zraevetsol, I believe, was supposed to be one of my more reliable and believable sources of information. However, his cavalier disposition, I suspect also, was likely intended to have me come to suspect him instead of some of the other passengers, because I have a feeling his connection to the family would be similarly nebulous.

"To further muddy the waters, what is that phrase on Earth? To throw a red fish on a road? A 'red herring,' is it? A 'red herring' was added, the introduction of a mythical woman in a red robe. Here, I was invited into my role as a fellow witness through careful manipulation of my environment. Awoken by the cry in the night, the footsteps, the cacophony and a heavy bang at my door. I unwittingly oblige and look out in time to see the red robe disappearing down the passage. Several carefully chosen people, the purser, Lee and Qozz, have also seen her.

"This robe was not found amongst the belongings of any of the passengers. This robe might have pushed the boundaries of anyone's insulation of innocence. Instead, it was placed in my luggage while I conducted interviews. I may never know who came up with this idea, since they could have easily left it in one of the hallway toilets, but I have a strong feeling it was someone with both a sense of humor and a bold disregard for authority.

"Specifically where the red robe came from, I don't think I could ever prove, though I lean towards Countess Kyrth. She seems to be the type to me, who would have an extra one.

"And to the knife. A final attempt to throw confusion over this case. It was dumped into the escape pod. It was a blind of both creativeness and of simplicity. The pod would, of course, eventually be found, but by then the escapee would be assumed to be long gone, and the trail cold. Instead, however, it was brought back by spatial eddies of phal and discovered within hours.

"The chances of such a thing occurring are literally astronomical! It is almost too much to call it bad luck. I do not consider myself to be particularly prone to flights of fancy, but I do not think it a stretch to say it is a sign this operation was cursed, to some degree.

"Such a quick discovery of the escape pod, with the weapon, scuttled the possibility of saying it was an outside job. Such a quick discovery meant that I was obligated to investigate each and every passenger in great detail.

"When Qozz first learned that the chip containing the letter that had been so carefully abraded and destroyed had in part remained intact just enough, and that the remaining words included just enough of Daisy Archer's name, he must have at once relayed this news to the rest of the passengers.

"This development meant it was clear that Countess Kyrth's position was suddenly quite tenuous, so her husband took immediate steps to conceal her personal passport and provide only her diplomatic one, which does not display her former family name. Really, that the destroyed chip was so damaged that it revealed nothing, except for the key bit – such a horrid piece of bad luck, and the second bit of bad luck after the phal drift.

"It was decided that everyone would uniformly and completely deny any connection to the Archer or Hernandez family. Given the phal, they knew I had no means of verifying the truth, and given their planted evidence, they calculated that I would not necessarily dig into this particular angle unless I became suspicious of one specific person.

"I must mention here, a side note. A detail that kept surfacing. It became somewhat of a theme. Once the identity of the dead man became clear, there was general agreement - no great disservice had been done to society by removing this man. Interview after interview, each person said, in effect, that this was no great loss. I am inclined to agree on that front. But a murder has been committed, and I must investigate.

"But others seem to balk at my insistence to ask questions. I ask that they help me see justice done. I am met with the same response, whether it comes from royalty or nobility or even a shuttle salesman, who put me in my place. Time after time, I kept hearing it. Justice had been done. Justice had been done. And after I began to pick apart the many lies told to me. Justice had been done. For such a diverse crowd, there is an undeniable uniformity in the ideals of justice.

"Now there is another issue I had to address. Assuming my theory on this crime was the right one, and I am certain it is, then the Orion Express's purser must be in on it. But if that is true, I then had thirteen murderers. Perhaps a thirteenth person wanted in on the plot? But, no, this plot has been exactingly and meticulously planned and executed, and only twelve stab wounds exist, so a thirteenth murderer is incongruous.

"So now I was faced with the odd question of who was innocent? Who, out of all these persons of interest, is the one person who did not partake?

"I concluded that the person who had no part in the crime itself would be, conversely as it may seem, the one person who would be considered the most likely to do so. The person with the most motive, the most reason to kill Parisi is, of course, Countess Kyrth.

"Count Kyrth unabashedly lied to me again and again, and yet I fully believed him when he swore to me upon his honor that his wife had never left her bed that night. It would mean he, himself, took her place, and struck one of the blows that killed Parisi.

"If so, to circle back around, then Bael Kehrno, the purser, was definitely one of the twelve. This posed a new problem. How could I prove it? He was a decent man who had worked for Agate Incorporated for years, and his character was vouched for by Mr. Douqh as a reliable and good man. Not the sort to get caught up in a murder plot through corruption or the like. Therefore, Bael Kehrno must also be involved in the Archer Affair. But, that seemed so improbable. He has never been a resident of the Sol System, or indeed Federate space, and then I remembered.

"The dead au pair – the nanny to the family, was Xindi. Specifically, arboreal. She would have been about the right age to be his daughter or niece. It would explain, further, the decision to commit the crime aboard a vessel in transit. It meant he could ensure the proper staging of each passenger – the booking of a 'Mr. Harris,' whom I suspect is fictional. Obtaining a uniform and purser's passkey would be simple, and they could isolate the victim and prevent an innocent bystander from being railroaded.

"His complicity also meant I could explain the escape pod. For you see, it should not be possible to launch the escape pod without being inside of it. Even if they were to accomplish this specific feat, it would vent the compartment, killing whoever was inside. Yet the discovery of the empty pod mere hours later meant just that. It initially vexed me.

"The pod was supposed to be a blind, true enough. But accomplishing it's launch without launching with it spoke of someone with a great deal of technical know-how. If someone with an insider's knowledge of the Orion's workings could provide the necessary codes, then that person, or someone else with the skills to use them could indeed use those codes to gain administrative access at the compartment panel.

"It would be a simple matter to reprogram the escape pod's base functions and set it to launch on a timer, thereby avoiding the problem of venting the room whilst inside.

"Were there any other passengers whose parts were not yet explained, I needed to ask myself. Yes, several. While Countess Kyrth's relation eventually became known through her name, Talla Shran, and the young Wroe'bex Qozz explained readily enough his relation through his father's involvement as the prosecutor, the rest of the passengers were a bit more complicated." Here, Plormot took a brief reprieve and fixed the human lieutenant and linguist each with a look.

"It came to my attention the prevalence among humans of traveling under false documents.

"From the start, I knew this crime had to have been a crime of premeditation. A crime of design. Lee seemed to possess the meticulous hand needed to design such a crime. Once my suspicions were raised through her secretive conversations, it took only the realization that things were not as they appeared for me to zero in on her. And of course, the false documents.

"Hannah Lee was not Hannah Lee at all, but Hoshi Sato, a longtime friend and officer who served with Captain Archer for years. Countess Kyrth's attempts to describe a tall, busty woman to deflect suspicion away from Lee's true identity as Sato proved to me all the more that Hannah Lee and Hoshi Sato were one and the same. It would further explain odd moments where I would note how her attitude was reminiscent of a vulcan, and she would surprise me with an odd reaction of mirth when I commented on the similarity. Now, it is clear, because Sato would have had ample opportunity to learn such behaviors under the tutelage of her old mentor, the revered T'Pol.

"Regardless of what she called herself, she was intimately acquainted with Lieutenant Keller, and it stood to reason that if one of them was false, then the other should be, as well. Back to 'casting' my parts, Keller could only be reasonably cast as Malcolm Reed. Reed and Sato were longtime associates, and Reed was one of Captain Archer's highest ranking and most trusted friends, serving together through multiple wars and exploratory missions.

"As to my mystery over their conversation, it irked me. I knew the answer must be a simple one. I applied the explanation that her phrase: 'When it's done," referred to the murder. But if so, what was she putting off? Were they planning to court and marry? If so, why would coupling prevent their ability to commit this crime? If I could not explain the second part, I could not soundly apply the conversation to the murder. And then, I saw it. She mirrored our proud lieutenant, here.

"I had asked whether he was injured, early on, and he - what is the saying {masticated my head off?} and denied it outright. Later, he admitted to being injured on a 'job' of some sort, and was most displeased that I had reasoned it out. Indeed, Earth has fostered environments where showing weakness could spell death. Why should Sato be any different? She travels under a false identity to safeguard her career from her own injury, and it would only make sense for her to put off her appointments if there is risk involved. Did the appointments awaiting her make sense? Was she putting off her treatment until after the crime? I think the answer is yes. Quite simple really, once I'd taken a step back.

"Declan Stills, the shuttle salesman, was an obvious fake, once Reed and Sato were unmasked. After all, it seems to be a 'fad,' a 'popular' thing to do, for humans to sample passports and identities like a platter of hors d'oeuvres. Parisi was in disguise as Evered. Reed was in disguise as Keller. Sato was in disguise as Lee. Why should Stills be any more legitimate?

"Frankly, part of me would not be shocked – surprised, maybe, but not shocked – to find that I had booked passage aboard a ship comprised entirely of dead people.

"Yet Stills felt so real to me. But I needed to 'cast' him, as it were. A shuttle salesman? A bit unoriginal of me in my guess, but a perfect fit. He would have been the helmsman for one of the captains aboard their vessels, or perhaps on Earth.

"When I confronted him, he admitted he had been the pilot for Archer first, then for the family on Earth. And it all fell together so neatly. Of all of the members of the Archer household, I remembered Travis Mayweather vividly, though his name and face had receded into the depths of my memory. The news had latched onto the au pair, it was true, especially upon her suicide, but they had focused on the helmsman just as much until he was cleared.

"In fact, he was one of the people associated with the family who was most closely examined for any possible guilt in little Daisy's abduction. The young, happy-go-lucky pilot who took a special liking to the child and who often took her on joyrides in the shuttle was immediately suspected. He was terribly treated by the authorities and the press alike, and it is no wonder he traveled now under a different name.

"It was through Mayweather's distress that Strophyr Zahn's relation to the family was elicited. Steward to Captain Hernandez, going on to assist her while she was stationed on Earth. He grew attached to the family, and worked with Mayweather on a near-constant basis. It is no wonder he immediately came to me to reveal his connection when I unearthed Mayweather's identity. It is easy to see why the great Captain Hernandez so valued Zahn as a steward, for he has continually exhibited steadfast loyalty.

"The maid, Tehf Toloe. I could not immediately guess her role, until it suddenly came to me. She, too, is loyal, and she is ever so organized. I felt an intangible sense that led me to believe she belonged amongst data entry stations, performing mainframe upkeep and administrative duties. She even slipped a little when I mentioned it, saying how her supervisors praised her for being an excellent administrator, a form of praise an Antaran lady's maid would be unlikely to ever receive. She struck me, also, of a woman who unfailingly keeps her finger on the pulse of the goings on around her. Not simply for her species as a betazoid, mind you. While I am sure she is as empathic as any other betazoid, I specifically get the impression that she is a personable and insightful individual.

"Perhaps now I am being fanciful, but I suspect Miss Toloe worked with Captain Hernandez, given her current employer is one of the captain's close friends. Remember, I fancy myself to be just imaginative enough to be good at 'casting' such a group of people. Miss Toloe is certainly someone who stands out as someone who could quite easily make a name for herself based on her professional skill and personal insight. I further imagine her demeanor of calm service is an act to cover self-recrimination and feelings of guilt. She exclaimed to me that she had nothing to do with the uniform. While I know that particular statement to be false, given that she agreed with her comrades to pack the uniform into her case, I believe her words. That she often checks and double-checks everything to make sure all is well.

"But what guilt could Miss Toloe possibly feel? Why is she included in such company? Sadness, anger, a multitude of feelings would make sense, of course. But as a passing colleague to the family, and with no direct responsibility over the child, or the welfare of anyone, what could possibly give her such a strong guilty conscience? And then I realized, she was the Starfleet administrator who worked with a plethora of Starfleet personnel in all manner of services.

"Any issue regarding benefits such as health care, retirement, pay and the like, that would have been Toloe's purview. She would have been the one to review placements of any help into the Archer-Hernandez household. She would have been the one to get to know Hernandez and her needs. She would have been the one to place Zia there. Is this enough to feel guilt? Certainly, if one is soulful enough, and I think she is. But I think there is yet more.

"It would have been Toloe's professional responsibility, after all, to occasionally check in on Zia. Is she fitting in? Is she adjusting well? Does she get along with the children and everyone else? It seemed obvious, all of a sudden. Her job is to connect people to resources and other people, and if a lonely newcomer to Earth needed someone to relate to, it would be the easiest thing in the world to connect her to another relative newcomer. Introducing her to someone of common experience would have been only natural, which brings me to Zraevetsol.

"Zraevetsol seemed to fit nowhere within the household, nor would he have worked as a colleague with any of them. He somehow knew offhand that the family didn't have a gardener, when I jokingly asked. This clearly told me he knew more of the family's structure and the people around it than he had led me to believe. So, he knew the household, but was not a part of it. And then it was obvious.

"He is currently in the employment of an investigative agency. Most agencies draw their employees from traditional lanes, such as the military, and more specifically, the police. Zraevetsol could easily have worked as a Federate-affiliated officer of some kind, and he just as easily could have been hired upon completion of his education. Regardless of which, I suggest that he did indeed gain his early work experience on Earth, which would have brought him into proximity with the Archers, and made him an obvious choice for Miss Toloe to make introductions.

"I tested the waters on this front with Zraevetsol. I mentioned what great companionship there can be had between different people of similar experiences, and he gave me the very reaction I sought. He tried to sell me some line about his eyes stinging from the light or some such nonsense, but it was clear to me then. He had grown close, perhaps even in love, with young Zia. Given his presence with such a cohort here, I suspect the latter.

"There is also the matter of our timid Finta. I was immediately struck, not by Finta herself, but by the other passengers and their regard to her. Upon receiving everyone's passports and documents, I reviewed them and found that Finta hails from Denobula, and that she is a missionary. She does work to heal the suffering of the unfortunate throughout the quadrant.

"And yet Mrs. Valy'r referred to her as a doctor. Another time, she mentioned she was a missionary, so perhaps it could be written off as Mrs. Valy'r being Mrs. Valy'r.

"What I could not simply dismiss, however, was how several supposedly unrelated people had all somehow decided she was a doctor. In my interviews, whenever Finta came up, I began to feign forgetfulness at her name and occupation, and people obligingly filled me in. Her name was Finta, they'd say. A doctor. She had introduced herself to me as a missionary. I asked whether she practiced medicine, and she said no, not for some time.

"Yet Reed called her a doctor. Sato called her a doctor. Mrs. Valy'r waffled between calling her a missionary one moment, and a doctor the next. Everyone, supposed strangers, called her a doctor, which means everyone knew her from the time when she was a doctor. Indeed, this detail is the detail that most bothered me.

"More than the escape pod, more than the mythical purser and red robed woman traipsing around the ship, moreover still than the timing of the murder. Everyone naturally thought of her as a doctor. It was the primary point that told me things were not what they seemed aboard this ship. It was only natural to conclude her role as little Daisy's pediatrician, and as Phlox's wife.

"The ever-loyal Talla answered me with a partial truth when I asked her for the name of Phlox's wife. Feezal, was the name she gave me. All well and correct, I am sure, but wholly inadequate when she knew very well I meant Phlox's wife, who was injured during the abduction that killed him. Besides, most everyone knows denobulans have several spouses each.

"For further confirmation, I thought it odd that Finta had such trouble in Common, but not so much in English. It wouldn't be unreasonabe for her to never need to learn English, but she certainly should have learned Common, if not as a doctor, then of course as a missionary. To test a theory, I commiserated with Finta regarding how difficult English can be for those who attempt to learn it, and she readily agreed.

"As you all know by now, I followed the details of the Archer Affair ravenously, and I remembered that during the abduction, it wasn't only that an unfortunate bystander had been killed, but another had been delivered a very grave injury to the head. I sense, sadly, that Sato is in good company when it comes to neurological injury, for Finta also seems to me to be someone dealing with the fallout from a head injury. She can no longer practice medicine, her trained profession. She struggles in certain non-native languages, which are processed in a different region in the denobulan brain than an innate, mother tongue.

"And now there remains only Mrs. Valy'r. Mrs. Valy'r's role was more important than even my own as a witness, I should think. She served as the person more open to suspicion of the crime than any other passenger because she occupied the compartment which connected to the victim's via the communicating door. Therefore, she would not have a good alibi.

"To be certain, it seemed absurd she should even need an alibi. She was, by all accounts, an absurd woman. I knew of no risian with any connection to the Archer affair, nor the family. Did I need to reevaluate my theory of the twelve? Did both Count and Countess Kyrth participate in this crime, rather than this gregarious woman? But no, her compartment was key to this case. It could not have been done without her.

"And then it hit me. Once I accepted she must have been in on it, why then, I must cast her. And why not? Every human aboard this ship has traveled under an assumed identity. Why not an assumed species? The casting, then, was obvious, for only an artist could ever pull off such a performance. And there was an artist connected to the Archer family. The famed actress, Lillian Aldana, known across a hundred systems throughout the quadrant…"

He drew to a halt, allowing the room to breathe in silence for just a moment.

A reverberant voice spoke up softly, as in a dream.

"I had always imagined I'd do well in a comedic role." She sounded like a whole different person to the plaintive, slightly shrill Mrs. Valy'r.

"That slip about calling Finta a doctor, and also a missionary was silly. It just goes to show the value in proper rehearsal. Most of the details were planned while we were scattered across the quadrant, so it's no wonder a detail like that slipped through. Oh, don't blame yourself, Finta, I was supposed to give final eyes to the plan and I missed it. It was, as he says, so natural to think of you as I always have."

She dipped her head to her hand. When she straightened up, Plormot saw that she had removed the Risian forehead marking that had fooled him for so long. Such a simple sleight, yet so effective.

"You know it, now, Mr. Plormot. You're such a clever man, you've got such a vivid imagination. But even you can never understand what happened. The day we discovered Daisy gone, and Phlox and Finta just lying there – discovering them had Talla in a near-catatonic state. I was just crazy. So was everyone. And Malcolm somehow managed to get out of some training exercise to make it there.

"That first day, it wasn't so bad. We all knew what we would do. We would find her, we would bring her back. But time stretched on, and I'd never seen Erika quite like that before. I'll spare you the play by play of events, but that whole 'affair' as you like to call it took less than three months. But the four years since have been an eternity.

"When it was all over, when it was clear Parisi had escaped, we decided it together, then and there, that he couldn't be permitted to live. There were twelve of us – well, eleven – since Malcolm was still recovering from injuries Parisi had left him.

"First we thought we'd just pick one of us to do it, whoever was willing and able, but in the end we settled on this way. It was Travis to suggested it, actually. Since he'd gone through hell with the system he felt we should employ some semblance of it.

"Hoshi drew up the main plan and worked out all the details with Bael. She's made it her job for the last two years. Once Malcolm was up and about, he helped Zraevetsol track him down. They kept tabs on him. Wroe'bex was the one we knew without a doubt Parisi would have no way of suspecting any connection to the case, since he had never been covered in the news or tabloids. He had always adored Erika, so he volunteered to lure him out. Wroe'bex's father had been disgraced after Parisi threatened Wroe'bex's life and made his escape. He had taken some finance courses and he was quite good about figuring out and explaining to us exactly how Parisi's money and connections had helped him escape in the first place.

"It took a long time to perfect our plan. Mr. Plormot, you have no idea just what we've sacrificed since it all ended to get here. Tehf had been slated for a series of promotions, and she gave up her entire career to make amends for introducing Zia and Zraevetsol – not that she has anything to apologize for. But you see, Mr. Plormot, we've all be trapped in those three months for the past four years. Travis hasn't had the nerve to fly in years, Strophyr refuses to accept a new posting. Hoshi keeps putting off the procedures that could put her right again. Don't look at me like that, dear, it's long past time.

"All of this is to say it took time to make it all happen. We had to track Parisi down. Zraevetsol managed to finally pin down his exact location. Wroe'bex got into his employment, and helped to convince Parisi to hire Strophyr. Then we had to consult with Bael, Zia's father. Well, he was willing. She was his only child, after all. Wroe'bex finagled it so Parisi would be traveling this way during the slow season so we'd be assured the chance to book passage solid. With Bael actually working aboard, it was too good a chance to be missed. Besides, we weren't about to take a chance on incriminating anyone else.

"Talla's husband had to know, of course, and he insisted on coming with her. Wroe'bex managed it so that Parisi selected the right day for traveling so that Bael would be on duty. We had meant to book every compartment and every berth. But of course, there was the extra berth left empty, anyway. Malcolm managed to book the last one under 'Mr. Harris.' He's a real person, actually, a sketchy old man, if you know what I mean. Not fictional at all, like you thought. Malcolm worked with him a while back, and he helped us bring Parisi in the first time around. He was never supposed to come, of course, but we needed that berth empty, or else it would have made things difficult for Wroe'bex.

"And then, at the last minute, you came …"

She stopped.

"Well, you know everything now, Mr. Plormot. What are you going to do about it? If everything has to come out and be revealed, I'll take full responsibility alone. As clever as you are, you don't have much in the way of physical proof. I would have gladly stabbed that man a dozen times over. You see, we didn't do this solely for revenge. It wasn't just my daughter and her children, nor was it for Phlox or Zia or even Jon. There had been other children before Daisy, and there might have been others in the future. People like him don't change after a certain point.

"We only carried out the sentence that was long overdue. But if society needs a culprit to condemn, then let it be me. It's unnecessary to bring all the rest into it. These people, maybe they can't see it themselves, but they still have a lot to live for. Finta can still do good in the galaxy, even if she doesn't believe it yet. Travis might still fly now that one of his demons has been dealt with, and Hoshi and Malcolm, they love each other. And Talla might finally feel safe for once…"

Her voice was wonderful in the space, filling the room and soothing an otherwise dry, recycled atmosphere. It was her deep, emotive tones that had surely captured the souls of many across the sector.

Plormot looked over to his friend.

"You are the director of Agate Incorporated, Mr. Douqh. What do you say?"

Mr. Douqh cleared his throat.

"It is my opinion," he coughed. "That the first theory you outlined is the right one. I think the Nivaluzian authorities would find everything to be just as you describe it to them, upon our arrival."

"And you, Dr. Suric?"

The doctor was wiping a suspicious bit of dust from his eye.

"I agree, of course. It is all well and good."

"What of your medical estimations regarding the dead body? And the holes you mention in the first theory?" Plormot pressed.

"Ah, well. I admit I perhaps became a bit overexcited in my hypotheses."

Another silence stretched.

"Well," Plormot gave a final pat to the passports before him. "I have done what I said. I have proposed my solution before you all, and will now close this case."

* * *

Author's Notes:

The story title is a pun that I couldn't resist.

I named the transportation company Agate Incorporated after Agatha Christie.

Those of you familiar with Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express will have realized early on that I changed some of the details of the story and kept some others. For the sake of thoroughness, and to ensure Christie gets all the credit possible, I'll outline them here.

I made several changes to the Armstrong/Archer case. In the Armstrong case, Armstrong, his wife and stillborn child, Daisy, and the maid are the primary victims mentioned in the canon story, not including Cassetti's prior kidnappings/child murders.

In the Archer case, I decided a couple of things:

A) There's no way Phlox, Trip and T'Pol would all sit this story out if given the option.

B) But I also couldn't have the entire main cast/bridge crew traipsing around on the Orion Express.

For one thing, I think it's more dynamic to have a more eclectic collection of alien species. The shear diversity of nationalities, backgrounds and classes in cannon Orient Express is a big part of the draw for me. The entire bridge crew and main cast, which consists of one vulcan, one denobulan, a dog, and the rest human, seemed a little too uniform to achieve that goal. Even in this final version here, there were more humans on board than I liked.

For another, even though anyone at all familiar with Murder on the Orient Express won't be remotely surprised with the reveal, I wanted some sense that we get to meet some Star Trek versions of the culprits and get to hear some of their stories and grievances.

We've seen Trip grieving, angry and out for revenge after the Xindi attack, so I figured that ground had been covered and I killed him off. Similarly, we've seen T'Pol explore her own child arc, so she had to go, too. (Ever so briefly, I considered sparing them so they could raise their not-dead child somewhere far off, but immediately scrapped that. One of them might sit it out, given the danger, but both? No, so I offed both of them.)

For a bit, I played around with having Phlox join the story instead of Dr. Suric, because a revenge-driven Phlox was a cool idea to me, but I opted instead to have his (non-Feezal) wife fill in, because I needed to fill in more female characters. It also seemed a bit too far of a stretch to have him take part in an organized conspiracy planned over the course of multiple years to kill a man using subterfuge rather than capturing him and ensuring he be held on trial for his many, many murders, abductions, bribery, etc. If not on Earth, then on Denobula, or the Federation. I also thought Finta could use a little spotlight as a formerly well-balanced, successful doctor and scientist, but now changed into a jittery shadow of herself, who now embraces strict religion for comfort and structure.

To put it plainly, I needed to kill off more of the bridge crew to round out the collection of characters aboard the Orion Express.

As an aside, it felt somewhat fitting, though admittedly unoriginal, to have Trip die while trying to save the abducted child of a friend/colleague. This time, though, he gets to die for Jon's kid instead of Talla Shran.

I decided to honor the format of the story. I altered a couple of chapters, and cut one of them because it was no longer applicable to my story, based on changes I had made. I kept the template, and the order of each interview, etc, the same.

The berth booked under the name 'Mr. Harris' is actually a detail I kept from the original book. It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up, since Section 31 is headed by someone known as Harris, so I had Reed make the booking under the name Harris as a symbolic way to stick it to his former boss a final time. As much as I see Reed as a professional who wouldn't be swayed by personal feelings, I also think he's exactly the type who might make an exception in operating procedures if it meant he could well and truly cut ties from Section 31.

Once I designed the details of the Daisy Archer kidnapping case, I did briefly consider writing an entire appendix of scenes to show the abduction with Phlox's stumbling into the abduction and being killed for it. Then, perhaps a scene or two showing Talla's point of view of discovering everything and of Parisi getting away. After, everyone frantically careening around the system tracking down leads and coming up short, meanwhile while the police are terrorizing Travis and the poor Arboreal Xindi nanny, Zia. And then to have Daisy's body discovered, and Erika Hernandez miscarrying and dying. Trip, T'Pol and Malcolm taking off on a suicide mission to find Parisi, and things go wrong. Malcom coming back with a dead Trip and T'Pol but captured Parisi. Only to have Parisi threaten the DA's kid and get a sweetheart deal and disappear, and then have Jon take his life and everyone left wondering what just happened.

In lieu of the appendix, I was tempted to write in a bunch of flashback scenes. I managed to limit myself to the prologue, since a ton of flashbacks would have undercut the spirit of a Christie mystery.

You might think: 'But Mastodontosaurus, reading a depressing grief train of a series of horrific events would be awful!' Think I'm mean now? I was seriously trying to decide whether to have Parisi kill Porthos during the kidnapping, too, or whether to have Porthos die of old age/depression right before/after Archer's suicide. In the end, I decided I couldn't pull off a John Wick style revenge plot satisfying enough for mistreating Porthos. See? I do have boundaries …

Finally: I realize this story is a little niche and somewhat pigeon-holed, given that it's primarily designed for people who enjoy both Star Trek: Enterprise _and_ Christie's Murder on the Orient Express. I mainly wrote it for my own entertainment, but I'm glad if it gives even a couple of people a good read, especially with so many people going stir-crazy from sheltering in place. Thanks for sticking it out!


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